9:30 Dragon: The Fifth Blight
by SilverMiaWolf
Summary: Ferelden. Darkspawn! Pre-Romance. Cheese! Mabari! T for language.
1. Chapter 1: Where it began

**A/N. So this is the final draft of the taster I already have up! I have only 10 chapters done at the moment, but honestly, they form a short story of their own. Soooo instead of making you guys wait for gods knows how long (seriously, could be another year) for me to complete the whole thing, I will post what I have and call it complete.**

 **It'll make sense. Hope you guys enjoy! *loves***

 **I may have fiddled a little with locations, events and people: I either haven't played for a while and forgot where things where, or it was deliberate for reasons that will become clear. I will try to keep everything as close to the cannon world as possible.**

* * *

1.

Footsteps on the stairs cause us to pause our somewhat controversial conversation in confusion. Rarely do any of the multitude of Dryden relatives bother coming all the way up here – here being the Magi tower on the other side of the Soldiers Peak building – from the courtyard.

Levi, the sandy-haired patriarch of said Dryden clan, appears in the doorway. His hand is poised to knock before he realises we are already paused and awaiting his intrusion. In his other hand I spy some parchment.

"It's a letter for you, Esme." Levi states as he carefully navigates the room. The mass of work benches and large set ups of glass and liquids makes the room hazardous to any unfamiliar with the layout.

My eyebrows betray my surprise by rising up my forehead. "A reply from the Grey Wardens already then? I was not expecting one for a week or two yet." I comment with interest.

We are after all halfway across the country from Denerim, the Capital, where the Warden's enjoy their Headquarters in the Royal Compound, according to Levi, so I would expect a long waiting time. Not to mention I would think them out across the country more often than not. I must have been lucky.

Levi shrugs but hands me the letter. The Familiar seal of the Wardens (a Griffon; what a surprise) is pressed into normal coloured wax. Avernus has shuffled closer – no doubt to read over my shoulder, nosy old sod – while Levi shifts uneasily in front of me.

I scan the spiky cursive script quickly. "The Commander is coming." I announce to the room. Levi grins a little excitedly. "He is interested by our research and is hoping to begin giving the new Joining juice to recruits straight away." I tell Avernus, "and yes Levi, he is still interested in renovating the place to use as a future Warden base."

Avernus harrumphs smugly and returns to his work content that his brilliance will soon be recognised – never mind that I had contributed nearly as much effort (though not time) into the new formula too.

Levi expresses his delight in stuttered sentences; since finding out that it was his ancestor's actions – the last Warden Commander of this place – that directly led to the banning of Wardens in Ferelden he has wanted to gift Soldiers Peak back to the Ferelden Wardens as both an apology and since it is theirs by right.

"They sent this message ahead of themselves. They should be here within a fortnight." I further inform Levi.

"I'll send a couple of my cousin's out to greet them. We should get the top floor dormitory cleaned up for them." He ponders. "Lana was going to start at the bottom, but the top floor dormitory is in better condition."

I nod and swipe my inky hands on a nearby rag. "I will come down and help. I need a break from the bull-head." I whisper sotto voice.

Levi nearly smiles until Avernus growls at us in displeasure. With relief we leave his sanctuary. The twice centennial ought to leave more often too; I am convinced that his brain is rotting staying only in this one room.

"Do not forget to bring more food in, Levi." I state to distract myself from the view of 'The Bridge' which connects Avernus' tower to the rest of the Keep. The drop is measured in tens of feet. Fifty? I care not to find out honestly.

He actually chuckles. "I know. They eat like starving wolves." He sighs. "I'm glad this place is going back to the Wardens. I just hope things go better for Duncan than they did Sofia." Levi admits quietly.

We pass into the Keep, made of the same stonework as the Tower, meaning that without the large fires in each of the rooms it is absolutely freezing even in the summer months.

This floor, the very top, contains nothing but a shrine the original builder – Warden Commander Asturian – commissioned. The next floor down is the Commanders Quarters, where we encountered the Ghoul of Commander Sophia Dryden, which includes a small but lavish bedroom and a larger study area filled with bookcases of paperwork.

Below the Commanders quarters is the "smallest dormitory" with its own little leisure area. On the third floor is the ritual room, a connected tower holds an armoury. The first and second floors are large dormitories. The ground floor consisted of a break room and mess hall with associated kitchen, and the archives which also connect to a tower which holds a (out of date) library.

For the moment we have been cleaning the place; firstly by taking any ruined furniture and other broken paraphernalia out, then by attempting to clean the stones. We have yet to figure out an effective way to get rid of the dust.

"Duncan does not have a claim to the throne." I reply dryly.

Levi doesn't particularly appreciate my observation if his droll expression is anything to go by. One day I will find someone who can giggle with me.

In companionable silence we descend another two floors into the smallest dormitory; while the Commanders area is in good condition it is full of dust and fragile paper work, so we will be putting the Commander in with the rest of his group in the "smallest dormitory" which will be easy to clean as it is bare. Six queen sized beds are to be fitted – though we found the remains of high quality double bunks so we believe that this dormitory was meant for the most senior Wardens under the Commander.

"This place is not cursed, Levi, no matter how haunted it still feels." I try to reassure my new old friend. "Besides did you not say that the current King was his friend's son? Do you really think the Commander would usurp his nephew of heart?"

Already done inspecting and tallying the work needed in the "smallest dormitory" Levi turns to me with a long suffering sigh. "No".

I smile. "Then stop fretting," I scold with humour, "I have never encountered such a worrier outside of concerned mothers!"

Levi blushes violently but smiles still. "Sorry Esme."

"You'll give me a complex, and then where will we be? It will be chaos, Levi, and all your fault." I further jest.

"Alright I surrender!" He exclaims with a short laugh. "No more worrying… for today at least." He amends with forced gravity.

I bask in our shared humour – Levi rarely smiles much less laughs – as we descend further down the Keep to begin spreading the news of our impending guests. I predict that the next week will be a tizzy of frantic cleaning.

#*#*

"Dirk's boy just came back! They got the Warden's!" Levi excitedly blurts. "They're less than a week away!"

Thankfully for the occupants of the room I had heard his pattering footsteps and paused my runic work, otherwise this particular rune set would have literally blown up in our faces.

"Oh! Maker! Sorry Esme!" Levi gasps suddenly realising just how badly things could have gone.

I wave him off with a small smile. "I heard you coming. And don't worry I will finish up here and then head up to Avernus; he is using lightening again so I wouldn't go up there today if I were you."

He blanches. "Right. I'll leave you to it."

I watch with faint amusement as Levi dashes away with the speed and sprightliness of a man twenty years younger. He is such a contradiction sometimes. Usually serious and unwilling to laugh, timid but quite fierce if you touch upon the right subjects, and while he looks fairly haggard he still has so much energy.

Turning back to my informal class of five youngsters from the Dryden clan I shrug but smile. I get five exasperated eye-rolls back.

"I know I have said this a few times already, but it bears repeating; the smallest mistake can monumentally ruin your work." I bend to continue the right side array. Today we are working on some small scrap stones from this building.

"I have had decades of experience and am quite skilled with ruins, but my teachers would make me start again unless I was beyond our Adept level in runic script and engraving." I firmly state. "Always double check your work."

"Yes Healer." The five chorus.

I hold back a laugh, just. I am far too used to being screamed at – by loved ones as much as patients – or have everything I do questioned – also usually by loved ones more than my fellow healers. This respect is amusing. I enjoy it, do not get me wrong, but it is sadly foreign and refreshing.

"As I was saying, in rune sets the runes need to be linked together so that they react together instead of all at once but separately. Not linking the runes together tends to cause bad explosions."

That certainly caught their attention.

"The most basic link is merely a line connected around the runes, like so." I demonstrate on the left hand set. They lean in as it begins to glow red. "However once we demonstrated our understanding and skill at engraving we were taught much a more complex way of linking. Instead of a plain line we would link using yet more runes." On the right hand set I begin to carefully carve tiny runes around the two larger ones. "It is tiring as you might imagine. There is much concentration involved."

Finishing the fairly simply conditional runes I sit back and watch the children's faces as this rune set lights up blue. Then the colour fades in and out of strength. Then the speed picks up until it looks like a flashing light. Finally the shade changes into a lighter sky blue from the original royal blue.

Pride and contentment washes over me as they whisper and gape in fascination. I might just have a few converts. What a shame none of them have magic and are therefore unable to learn the Gypsy way of rune-smithing.

"The Gypsy do not use Lyrium in our runes as it is not a resource easily available to us, nor in the quantities needed. We did find a way around this by using our own magic to charge the runes." I explain. "In conjunction with another rune we can have the set become self-charging by having it draw on ambient magic, though it does need to be charged once to activate."

Their attention has waned a little now that they have realised they will not be able to copy what I am showing them. I do not mind too much in truth.

"Obviously the more complex the rune the more magic needs to be used so the longer the set will take to charge." The oldest child snorts, unappreciative of my 'humorous' observation. "Using blood in runic work will cut out a lot of the charge time and will generally make the runes more powerful, but it falls under the Chantry's Blood Magic Acts and so is forbidden." I conclude swiftly.

While the Gypsy have no problems in general with practicing blood magic we do not have so many people that they can be sacrificed willy-nilly. Our leaders punish us heavily if we murder others in rituals (or outside of rituals). Even kidnapping and using non-gypsy is frowned upon.

"Mages are sensitive to any magic, be it a fellow mage, a glyph or even 'wild' magic and so they can also sense the runes and even feel them recharging on ambient magic." I continue to lecture. "I am not sure if Templars can. I must remember to ask around. It could be an interesting little project."

I pretend to not see the five eye-rolls. Maybe next week I shall move onto something they could actually participate in.

"How about tomorrow we switch topics?" I suddenly blurt in a moment of brilliance. "I know you are quite intrigued by our impending guests-"

A cheer rouses from my audience. I think they approve.

"- and I happen to have a few true-life stories to tell." I finish with a rare grin. "I have had the pleasure of working with Wardens before – even they need healing once in a while."

"What are they like?" The youngest boy asks.

"In one word? Fierce." I reply easily. "But they are normal people too you know, just with active and mysterious jobs, and they tend to be protective of each other. It's why they are called a brotherhood."

The old boy sighs again.

"I went to the Deep roads with several different Warden's. That is not a pleasant place to go but there are a couple of interesting stories to tell… if you promise not to cry like a bunch of babies when I get to the scary bits." I challenge.

Thus a chorus of "I'm not a baby" and "He/she's a baby" ring out.

"Alright, alright, I am convinced." I surrender easily and before a headache forms. "Starting tomorrow this will be story hour."

With that promise the five children happily rush out the room without a by-your-leave. Ungrateful whelps.


	2. Chapter 2: The arrivals

**A/N. Since I already had my first chapter up as a draft I decided to put number 2 up as well for you to (hopefully) enjoy. Do let me know!**

 **All my stories are unbeta'd so if you see mistakes do, politely, let me know. No need to be rude about it, ya know, I try!**

* * *

2.

For a week we have been on tenterhooks, waiting for the appearance of the Warden and his small contingent of recruits. Our eyes have constantly been looking towards the caves amongst the mountains Soldiers Peak is so carefully hidden by (it is no wonder people have forgotten about this place; out of sight, out of mind).

I am in the Keep's 'grassy' courtyard – I believe there is grass somewhere under the eternal dusting of snow – along with the entirety of the Dryden's (who have set up shop and live out here since the Keep is unlivable), on a break from our research – which is coming along so slowly we are as much at a standstill – when movement from the caves' entrance catches our attention.

Our 'guard' on the battlements – a boy of seventeen who made this job up to save from doing any actual work – eventually spots them and hollers the alarm. His yell is completely unnecessary as nearly half the bodies around me spotted the group well beforehand.

Soon enough the whole yard is at a rare standstill and Levi manages to push his way to the front. He looks like he is suffering a heart attack. I too am a little leery; some of mine and Avernus' research is not exactly something we want the Wardens to find out about before it is mostly done.

Our foray into curing the taint is not always completely legal – blood being a fairly important but illegal component – and secondly we know that not all Wardens will be thrilled to have a cure. In fact I predict very few will wish it and I am afraid they will decide to shut down and destroy our work.

Mostly I see this as an academic feat; to treat the untreatable. A healer's ultimate goal. Avernus I think started off wishing the cure for himself, but now I believe it is mostly inertia and pride that keeps him going. He thinks he maybe has a year or two of life left. From the looks of him I would say less than a year.

For now we merely plan to present the Commander with the improved Joining formula. By 'we' I mean Avernus will tell them a long unnecessary tale of his trials and errors while I am there explaining why we added ingredients; as in what they do in the formula, such as Andraste's Grace which improves survivability – something I learnt from the Ash Warriors who use it for their dogs when they fall to diseases.

From our research and experiments on the sparse amount of test subjects Avernus was able to lure into the Keep, the formula has not only a much higher rate of success but also it seems that the taint is even more delayed in its spread through the body. In theory a Warden should be able to live as long as a non-Warden – I say in theory because we have only been able to test this on animals, but our results look optimistic.

I sigh to myself.

There is still the trouble with their virility. Frankly I am unsure how the taint even effects a person's chance of conception – I guess the taint literally changes everything of a person. But that is just another thing to ponder on. Perhaps my own little project? Avernus seems completely unconcerned about having children, or mayhap he believes it a waste of time if we find a cure?

"Tammy, why don't you go let Avernus know our guests have arrived? I do not believe he will be using much magic again until after supper." I half order.

The lanky teen scurries off only after half a second's hesitation; it is not like the group is near enough to see any details of yet, and she will probably get a closer look during supper anyway.

Everyone else seems to suddenly realise what an utter wreck the area is and all but a few pounce into action as if shocked by lightening magic. Silly fools. Everything is in its place here and the Warden's will be more impressed by an industrious mess than a panicked one. At least I would be. Who knows anymore.

Besides the smell is the worst thing out here; unwashed bodies, dyes, tanning equipment and food stuffs like fish and meat are all that can be smelt now. The cutting winds are a curse for they carry the scents around and around.

Levi appears to my left – making me start in surprise though I will deny it to my dying day – and immediately begins to pat down his braided hair and smooth out his favoured shirt simultaneously.

"Here I thought you and the Commander where old friends?" I point out with humour at his preening.

Levi turns slightly pink but frowns a little fiercely. "I haven't seen Duncan at all since he became Commander of the Ferelden Wardens." He states. "And this is our first official visit; we should make a good impression." He argues.

Chastised I murmur an agreement.

Point well-made Levi turns around and signals mutely. A couple of his closest cousins form around him and on another unseen signal they set off in a steady trot to meet the Wardens before they reach the Courtyard.

I watch on still uncaring of the chaos around me. I have actually worked with the Grey Wardens before in my long life, several times in fact, so I do not quite have the same sense of awe and reverence that the common people seem to have.

Not that I dismiss the Wardens and what they do. On the contrary I know well their combat prowess, seemingly endless stamina and stony-faced brotherhood. I know and respect what they are and what they believe in. I have seen what their brotherhood protects Thedas from.

Darkspawn.

Vile creatures. Abominations worse than the Fade-dwellers the Templars and Circle Mages fear. At least fade demons have weaknesses; Darkspawn have the same prowess and stamina as their Warden counterparts, but worse, they have a hive mind that makes them terrifyingly cunning in large groups and ambushes (but no improvement to their intelligence thankfully). Also their tainted bodies can take much more punishment than a humans – even a Warden.

With a shudder I turn my thoughts from darkness and back to the much more interesting present.

The group have made it near enough that I can discern their numbers; aside from Levi and his relatives there are two in modern Warden Armour, and four others in just plain standard armour.

Obviously these four are the new recruits.

The group have no cart with them to carry their equipment, just backpacks with bedrolls hanging from the bottom, because carts are slow and tend to make targets for the few bandits that roam the country. Few can afford horses to pull the carts and oxen are more useful as cattle rather than pack animals.

"So which one is the leader?" Someone to my left asks.

"The male in the silver-coloured armour." I reply. "His armour is more ornate than the female's. She is wearing a modified Circle Mage uniform (which are fairly ornate themselves)." I continue pre-empting the next question.

The other four –all male – are in standard kits of splintmail, chainmail and leather (the leathers probably denoting his status as a rogue type; the lack of arrows on his back hinting towards him being a dagger wielder).

While I had been checking out their armour Levi and Duncan had clasped each other in a manly one-armed hug, a small smile gracing otherwise stony-set olive-skinned features of the Commander.

How funny; I know this one. I remember that he was travelling with King Maric and Loghain Mac Tir some twenty-two (ish) years ago. They ended up in Kinloch Hold with the Orlesian-Architect take over; I myself had been caught up in the debacle as I had been helping some of the Orlesian Wardens before it started.

Duncan still looks nearly exactly the same; some wrinkles, more facial hair, darker skin and his ponytail is a little longer but that is all.

The other Warden as I noted is female, either older or the same age as Duncan though there is grey in her mid-brown hair. Her blue eyes unerringly find mine even across the distance between us and through the midst of chattering Dryden's. We mages can feel each other's magic fields away.

"Isn't this exciting?"

"They don't look like much."

The comments flow over my head – sometimes literally due to my small five foot two stature – as the group travel ever closer. I cannot decide if the volume increases or decreases as they close in on us.

The leather bound white-blonde is an elf. From a City if the lack of Vallaslin upon his face is any indication. He seems jovial and is happily chatting to a stocky non-descript brunette human male.

The other two are hanging a little further back content to take in all that is going on around them – the taller gaping up at the Keep. One catches my eye simply for his lovely black mop of curls and startling green eyes; the second (the taller one) completely stuns my mind.

He is a Theirin if ever I saw one!

Not the light blondes of recent years like Maric and his father, but the red-ish colour of centuries past when the bloodline was less polluted with foreign blood, the colour of the native Ferelden's. However I must say that the face does have the square-jawed ruggedness the Calenhad line is so famous for.

Oh, and that panty wetting grin. Cannot forget that. Nope. Gods help us.

It is so wrong to see a Theirin line up to waste his life away with Darkspawn, barely able to have beautiful handsome children, slowly dying emotionally until he will be cold and hard and tired like a crumbling ruin.

I say nothing; it is not my place.

Also I wonder, does he even know his lineage? He may be illegitimate which his red hair indicates. Maric was a womaniser, but so were many of the previous Theirin's, he could be a fourth or fifth cousin even.

"And this is our resident Healer, Esmerelda."

The sound of my name startles me from my ponderings. The group has made their way right into the heart of the courtyard where I stand. A light of recognition enters Duncan's dark Riviani gaze.

"I remember you." He states with surprise. "You helped us escape from Kinloch Hold during the Darkspawn Civil War."

I laugh a little. "I hardly led you to the door." I try to deflect.

A single eyebrow rises. I am instantly jealous. "You dropped the cell door keys in arms reach by accident then?"

I put on my best innocent expression, which is terrible. "Of course."

He smiles knowingly. "And how do you know Levi, may I ask?"

"Esme was one of the Senior Healers during the Rebellion." Levi jumps in. "I didn't do any fighting, but I did supply runs, and even Healers need potions and poultices."

"I still do." I reply, "just because there is no War does not mean my work is done. Quite the opposite, I assure you."

Duncan chuckles. His voice reminds me of loamy earth; rich and comforting. He smells of the woods. "No wonder you are famous amongst the Wardens."

"Famous? No. Merely well known." I counter with a small smile and a shrug. "Like to like I think."

Levi jumps in then to the consternation of the rest of the Warden group. I think they were hoping we would elaborate our somewhat cryptic conversation. "We'll take you to your dorm and then show you around the Keep. We should be done in time for supper." He half demands half asks. "We usually have it out here because there's not enough room in the mess hall, or enough furniture to sit on."

Duncan looks a little concerned at the last quiet comment. I find myself tagging along, easily falling into step between the two older men.


	3. Chapter 3: Settling in

**A/N. Its a slow start, I know, but I promise there is Alistair interaction in the next chapter. I'm setting them up for a solid friendship, not jumping straight into a romance - which I kinda hate in stories.**

 **Oh and I'm British, with British spelling, please keep that in mind if you see any mistakes. Love u guys!**

* * *

3.

"We've cleaned up the Keep a bit but there was a lot of ruined furniture and arms laying around." Levi forewarns with some embarrassment as we ascend the steps to the front doors. "We've yet to replace any of it because we're trying to fix the stonework before it crashes down on us."

I note that while he still throws Duncan a nervous look their familiarity seems to lessen the effect of his nervous disposition and the tight line of his shoulders. I did not know Duncan at all when I rescued them but he was with King Maric, whom I recognised as I had fought alongside him in the Rebellion.

I had actually left Ferelden a year or two before after helping in the Rebellion and was making my way through Orlais to the Upper Continent when I encountered the Warden's from Jader and their Darkspawn problem. I was then sent to the Mages as a liaison but was swept along to the sieging of Kinloch Hold. It was madness.

"There has been problems with spirits." I put in reluctantly as we pass inside; the smell of must is overpowering and one of the recruit's sneezes. "Levi can give you the full details but suffices to say that the Veil is thin here-" Duncan's expression quickly becomes alarmed so I hasten on "- I have been repairing the Veil and we have had no invasions for a week, but it is slow going and I would not recommend using copious amounts of magic, especially in the Mirror room." I warn knowing the mage is close enough to hear.

Amell sniffs and hums. "I will help if I have time." She commits in a holier-than-thou tone. I resist the urge to thank her sarcastically although I am afraid I made a face if I am reading Levi's scandalised expression correctly.

Honestly Esme you are six hundred years old – no matter you look barely into your mid-twenties – just because you are again in the company of a Theirin does not mean you should revert back to acting like a child to impress him!

"Did the previous Wardens leave much behind?" Duncan asks, either oblivious to the by play, or more likely studiously ignoring it all.

"Not much." Levi admits as we ascend the first set of stairs. "A few bits of armour and weapons. Most are rusted beyond repair or any kind of use."

"And a few tomes and other bits of paperwork." I add with a mock consternation, and glare at our host, who has the decency to duck his head and agree much more heartily than is sincere. "I do not think it is anything new – that I could see anyway – but the diaries left behind are interesting if nothing else." I add conversationally.

Duncan makes a noise of acknowledgement.

"Of course there is Avernus himself, although he is not really chatty outside his little projects, but he also does not believe my claim of honourary Wardenship." I shrug. "You may have better luck."

"Since when were you a honourary Warden?" Levi asks incredulously.

"Since the Fourth Blight. I was in the Anderfel's training for my Healer Mastery when the darkspawn sieged the Capitol. I went to help. Healers are always sought after, especially amongst the Wardens." I state. Duncan nods in agreement. "I was specialising as a Field Healer so once I had proved myself in battle against the darkspawn the Wardens inducted me into their ranks. I was with them until they marched into Ayesleigh in Antiva."

"Holy shit!" A deep voice exclaims right behind me.

I turn and smile at the voice's owner; the raven haired man.

"I don't understand-" Amell begins coldly.

"Esme is Gypsy." Duncan states as if that is explanation enough.

"Elven kin fair of skin?" Someone pipes up from the back.

I full out laugh in surprised shock and pleasure. "They still use that ditty? Gods it must be nearly as old as I am!"

"No Gypsy has ever survived the Joining." Duncan continues as if no one had interrupted. A valuable skill to learn. "We thought the taint would affect them just like a normal person."

"It has something to do with our immortality. It is in our blood and bodies which is where the line 'Elven kin' comes from. The taint just does not mix well." I further explain. "Blood magic generally has a worse effect on us too which leads us to believe that some kind of Blood magic was used on the enslaved Immortal Elves to make them mortal."

Amell harrumphs but several of the men behind me make interested noises and even Levi looks fascinated. A shiver passes down my spine as we pass the mirror room and a little noise of caught breath tells me that Amell feels the thin Veil too.

"However few of us join anymore because we are not allowed full disclosure." I attempt to preemptively answer a follow up question. "It can be quite grating at times." I say with wry humour. I think I actually heard a cough covered giggle.

"But you seem to know a lot." Levi points out.

"Many years of service." I reply false brightly. "Also being a Healer with an in depth knowledge of physiology means I can make guesses about the taint and how it works, and the Joining formula."

"What is the Joining formula?" the same person as before asks with much humour lacing his tone; obviously not expecting a reply.

I chuckle. "Sorry, no secret sharing in front of the Commander."

This time when he laughs I am quick enough to catch sight of the possible Theirin at the end of his chuckle, much to my astonishment.

Only Amell is sour-faced after our banter, nevertheless Levi's insistent tugging of my elbow belies his anxiousness to get on with things, or to get me away from the Wardens before I get us into too much trouble.

*#*#*

The Wardens settled quickly into their rooms and were quite happy to tour Soldiers Peak even though there is little of import or real interest to see at the moment. I made myself scarce after the first wave of Dryden's ventured inside to greet our visitors, to no one's surprise; I can be social but I much prefer solitude.

Today Duncan and Amell are meeting Avernus to learn about the new Joining Formula and his other pride and joy; The Concoction. As you might have guessed Avernus has not yet found a suitable name for this mixture.

It effects, as described to me by the mage, are to enable the Warden to use their tainted blood to cause damage, like as the poison it is, but far more fast acting, yet also it allows them to do some other 'interesting things'. What those are Avernus will not tell me since I will not enjoy said benefits.

Frankly I would not take it even if I could. It is a sketchy sounding mixture that has caused horrific side-effects in the subjects he tried it on; haemorrhaging blood – while that is half the point of the mixture I mean the sort of haemorrhaging that one does not survive – insanity, blindness and more insanity. He is convinced this batch is perfect but has not had the subjects to test it on.

"The Tower was actually its own little Mage Circle." I inform my two compatriots as we ascend to the top floor. If I was not fit before I would be now from coming up and down these stairs twice a day at the minimum. "Avernus told us that its holds the necessities to live on; water and rune preserved meats and other perishable foods but also the other floors hold material for enchanting, potions, some Lyrium and other mage stuffs. Obviously it explains how he lived without revealing himself to the world and why he retreated to the Tower in the first place."

"I did wonder." Duncan quips.

I smile. "He has not revealed much else about his isolation aside from his little projects and keeping Commander Dryden contained." I shrug. "The poor sod is mostly stable but is quite irascible, and I would not recommend remaining in the same room once his wrath takes on magical form. He may look on 'his last legs' but his magic still 'packs a punch'." I warn with the sureness of experience.

"What are his 'little projects'?" Amell deigns to ask.

I shrug. "Anything to do with the taint. His, and I quote, 'most important', is a cure. It is also his least successful in terms of progress."

As predicted the two Wardens heavily disapprove but I decided since meeting them that putting the idea of a cure out there may not be a complete disaster… as long as they believe it is merely theoretical and not progressing. What is the phrase? Ah, "plant the seeds of doubt" or maybe it is 'sow', I can never remember.

While I may not approve his methods I am very supportive of most of his research and the cure in particular is something I am a great advocate for;

Not everyone inducted into the Grey Warden fold enjoys it, and some most certainly do not want the sacrifices involved. In my experience losing the ability to have children actually trumps the shortened life spans in people's resentment of Warden Life. That being said I honestly believe that the majority of recruits are quite happy to give everything up for the cause and find much happiness in the companionship of their brothers and sisters and keeping the Darkspawn at bay.

Ultimately I believe the number of Wardens would stay fairly stable if a cure is offered and plenty still would conscript. I just do not believe it fair that the recruits are not told up front what they will sacrifice.

I know, rich coming from someone who does not have to suffer the consequences, I have been told many times, but that is why I am helping Avernus now; so I can say that I am doing something.

"Anyway during the battle Avernus retreated into the tower and only came out again much later. When he did and found what had happened to the Veil and his Commander he shut her in her study and moved his things into the Tower where the Veil was still strong." I finally conclude the story as we enter onto The Bridge. It is still chilly today however it smells like it will rain later. "It was quite a shock when we found them both."

"Certainly not something _most_ would dare imagine." Duncan comments carefully.

I glance back at him sharply, having noticed the emphasis, "come now Duncan, my immortality is a gift of nature herself – unlike Avernus' – no blood magic was involved for me. And while my people do practice it we do not condone the unwilling taking of blood." I tell him coolly. "I abhor the way Avernus came about the new formula even as I respect the work and dedication he put into it."

"Blood magic!" Amell hisses.

I snort at her theatrics. "Archdemon blood. And a little Darkspawn blood too. Gods Templars use unwilling blood to track mages using their Lyrium powers." I argue.

Neither have anything to say back thus I turn and knock at the heavy wooden door. I can feel the magic of a ward in it; middling complexity but powerful due to its base in blood. My guess would be either a proximity ward or identification ward – Avernus has yet let me study the runes. Sour puss.

A second later the door opens to my surprise – usually I let myself in – revealing Avernus in all his bald frowning glory. He must be eager to see the Wardens else he would have carried on as normal deeply embroiled in his work and books.

"I don't need you anymore Gypsy; I found the notes and am quite able to describe the effects." He snaps.

I blink but am not all that surprised at his behaviour. As I said the man is irritable and irascible. I do feel a little flash of hurt and annoyance; half this work is my own, but the feelings pass as quickly as they came and I sigh with resignation.

"Esme can stay-" Duncan valiantly defends.

"She's not even tainted!" He spits – I sigh again having already explained this to him several times – "nor is she a senior member! She knows none of the codes. She should not be here for this discussion."

I scoff. "This is my work too Avernus; I actually understand the interaction of the ingredients, and you told me plenty that you shouldn't have."

His pale blue eyes narrow on me. I can feel the low crackle of his magic reacting to his anger. "I had no choice. Besides this discussion will not just focus on the Joining Formula."

"Enough, Avernus, I will go." I cut in before he can get truly riled. "Good luck." I mutter to Duncan which pulls a reluctant smile to the corners of his mouth. Amell watches triumphantly as I push past.

I wonder what crawled up his ass and died today?


	4. Chapter 4: Friends?

**A/N. Thank you to my FIRST REVIEWER, a guest named Judy. Her succinct review made me happy! Plz guys, gimmie some love! I do want to know what you think, especially about my O/C since she's a little controversial and maybe seems mary-sueish. I don't want that, so, let me know.**

* * *

4.

Three days since the Wardens arrived sees me heading down to the stables to check on my cart horse Rowan. Named as much for her colour as the obvious pick of trees that usually surround me.

Like me she has been born and bred into the Gypsy wandering life; normally we keep herds of Oxen – both to pull our well laden carts and to provide us with their accouterments like milk and skin – but one or two clans have recently decided to try the same with horses instead, even though horses have less value in our community.

Also like me she is finding it difficult being kept sedentary and indoors; we literally walk all day every day. The Dryden's are making as much use of her as they can – she is not tall but she can pull a fair weight and is a placid little thing – and when they cannot they walk her if I am unavailable.

"Hello girl." I greet her warmly, the familiar musk of horse calming to my nerves. Her answering whinny is both excited and remonstrative. I wince, "I know it's been a while; I am sorry. The Wardens arrival has kept us busy."

I scratch her velvety muzzle which she seems to accept as an apology. "How about a nice brush down?" I offer knowingly.

Rowan nearly takes the stable door down in her haste to be accessible. The Oxen – horrible smelly beasts I have never liked even though I grew up with and used them for most of my early life – snort and toss their heads in response to her excitement. I laugh and quickly grab her crate of brushes.

Only when I finally emerge into the fresh air – good Gods that stable stinks – Rowan has already made a new friend in the possible Theirin. Still in his armour. Silly man; there is nothing here willing to attack trained people.

I spy her nuzzling at his hand. "That has better have been an apple." I warn lightly. "She will get fat otherwise."

He blushes and ducks his head which is answer enough.

I find myself smiling. "As long as it's not too often, poor girl is used to much more activity." I explain with a fond pat to her shoulder.

"Of course." He agrees easily still being nosed lovingly by my horse. His soft smile melts my normal shyness.

I plop the crate by Rowans front leg and go to take a brush before a thought makes itself known. "Oh, where you looking for me? Is someone in need of healing?" I ask realising – Alistair? I think it was – may have been on a mission.

"No, no, I just got bored inside." He states with a little rub to the back of his neck. A nervous tick methinks. "I was a stable hand." He adds belatedly to explain why he came to the stables.

I look to Rowan now enjoying an ear-scratching. "Rowan is the only horse here; the clan seem to prefer oxen." His nose wrinkles; we are in agreement then. "Would you like to help?" I ask motioning to the crate.

A bright smile like the sun breaks on his face and a large hand eagerly grabs up a flat brush. I retrieve a comb to use on my horse's mane. Perhaps I will braid it today now I have some time.

"Why not use an ox?" he asks shyly as he begins to brush Rowan's forehead.

I smirk. "Aside from the smell?"

He laughs, "yeah aside from that."

"Oxen are too slow" I reply easily. "I travel light and usually need to get to my destinations quickly. My brethren however are semi-sedentary, meaning they have a lot to move but are in no real hurry to arrive, so they do use oxen." I have no qualms telling anyone a little of my people but I do like to stick to common knowledge.

"So you're a travelling Healer?" He asks lightly but I sense there is a little more to his half question.

"To put it bluntly, yes. I go where I am needed thus I tend to find myself in the worst places – disease or war, or with the Wardens."

His expression is suddenly strangely somber. "It can't be easy."

I shake my head. "Travelling is all I have ever known." I remind him gently. "One upside to journeying alone is that I can stay places for as long as I wish."

His expression turns wistful. "I've always wanted to travel. I've never left Redcliff, or well, before Duncan took us back to Headquarters at Denerim."

Rowan is still under our unthinking ministrations. Strange how invested I am already in the conversation when it has only just begun; I usually find all my concentration going into my tasks rather than chatting.

"I do so love the southern forestlands of Ferelden, so much beauty, and so little has changed since the clans united." I reminisce briefly. "You may yet get the chance to travel Alistair, so do not hesitate if the opportunity arises."

"Do the Wardens travel much, aside from going into the Deep Roads?" He asks. Why he is not discussing this with Duncan I cannot guess.

"Yes and no. They do track Darkspawn that are sighted on the surface but those sightings are rare and usually in remote places. I would not volunteer for Roads trips though." I shiver at the thought of the Dwarven domain. He grimaces in response; everyone has heard some form of horror story about the Roads. "Aside from that the more Senior Wardens take trips out to recruit people, or sometimes to gather other resources from wealthy patrons, and rarely they travel to other territories if needed."

Alistair blinks owlishly as he digests the all information I dumped on him, but to my confusion he then chuckles. "So much for not telling secrets!" He exclaims.

I feel a pang of embarrassment which instantly shows on my face as a vaguely sheepish expression. "Well unless Duncan is hiding in the bushes, and no one tattles on me, I think we can get away with it."

His full laugh crinkles his eyes I note distractedly even as mirth overtakes me too; this young man is so full of good humour and sunny joy that my own fairly deadpan emotions cannot withstand.

"I forget myself sometimes." I admit almost like an apology. "It is a lonely life I lead – completely my choice you understand – but…"

"But when it's just you and the horses you say stuff without thinking?" He finishes knowingly. I find myself smiling a little sadly because of his obvious empathy of experience: It glitters in his hazel eyes momentarily before it is once again replaced by his natural exuberance.

For a minute or two silence blankets us as we focus solely on our respective tasks – Rowan a content figurative pile of goo between us – but I feel it is not an awkward silence. Not completely easy either as we have only just met after-all but not so uncomfortable that we need to make awful small talk.

Of course it helps that Alistair has the looks and temperament of an old friend and commanding officer. A Theirin strangely enough. I find myself already falling into a trap of false familiarity with this man.

The afternoon falls away from me in a haze of companionable chat and braiding of my horse's mane and tail. I should have gone back to my research some hours ago but felt little inclination to go even with the threat of a lecture from His Grumpiness.

*#*#*#

Due to our visitors I have been very carefully hinted at to spend more time in the Ritual room, better known as 'the mirror room', mending the Veil that was so badly torn when two hundred years ago Avernus summoned many demons for Sophia.

Across the cavernous room sits a tall ornate mirror – its history unknown to us – even as I suspect Avernus knows more than he is willing to admit, that radiates a strange feeling of malevolence everyone can feel regardless of their magic ability. It acts as a portal for the demons being summoned as far as I know.

On the floor are four circular stone plinths that Avernus used as bases for the anchors of his summoning. What they actually where not even he is sure of, but at a guess maybe once decorative pillars rested on them, which in my opinion fits with the decorative nature of the room and vaulted ceiling.

I have been slowly moving further into the room as I knit the veil together. I liken it to sewing together a tear in clothing; take your time to fix it neatly and the tear is practically non-existent once finished.

The trouble is around the mirror especially the veil is so thin that I am having to reinforce it as well as knit it all together which means my progress has become achingly slow, even as I nearly exhaust myself each time I am in here.

"Would that it healed as quickly as flesh." I mutter tiredly to myself.

Flesh also doesn't resist my attempt either. Or has demons undoing my work whilst I am elsewhere. Yes, the veil is _that_ thin here.

"That is a scary mirror."

I fear I actually visibly startle in surprise as my visitor makes himself known.

"It was used for demon summoning." I explain from my undignified position on the floor in the middle of the room. It is cold – not helped by my sweat – but I am too weary to move let alone make it out of the room.

"Well that explains the evil vibes." Alistair replies cheerfully. "Are you okay?"

I have to smile. "Tired. I have just finished another about of Knitting."

He nods. "I felt the magic from the library"

I manage to scramble to my knees in alarm. "Felt it? You are a Templar?" I feel justified in my alarm; Templars have had many years of conditioning against Mages which becoming a Warden does not suddenly overcome.

But Alistair actually looks hurt at my alarmed reaction I note with surprise, and of course I am not stupid enough to not realise that he did wait until I had finished and did not come in swords a flashing to behead me without thought.

"I was sent to the Chantry when I was ten." He states defensively. "They put me in Templar training within half a year."

An unwilling recruit. And unwilling to be indoctrinated I would wager; his hurt and defensiveness an indicator of not identifying as a Templar.

I can kneel no longer so lower myself ungracefully onto my backside again. Alistair eyes me with a little concern but still keeps his distance. He is used to mages turning defensive on him as soon as his previous vocation is known.

"You haven't had good experiences with Templars, have you?" He asks reluctantly.

I laugh only slightly bitterly. "Not recently no." I admit. "Academically I know not all are bad but it seems that in recent years more and more are getting hostile."

He grimaces. "Chantry Fanaticism."

I snort. "Too true."

With that mutual agreement Alistair decides I am not going to attack him and so sits himself beside me. He is in plain clothes today – no point in wearing armour here – a thick cream coloured wool shirt and brown cloth trousers, his boots though belong to his armour set, and he has a thick ankle length cape to ward off the ever-cold.

I too am wearing a thick cape, though mine is lined with rabbit fur for extra warmth, and am in my 'civilian' clothing – my healers garb but without the light casings of chainmail and plate I wear on the road.

"I hadn't actually taken my Templar Vows but I've met a lot of mages…" He begins, "you are very different from them."

I wait with a blank expression, curious to know where this is going.

"I mean I've seen you out in the courtyard with some of the Dryden's practicing their sword training, practicing with them, with a weapon!" He blurts as if the very thought is heretical or just plain absurd.

I shrug. "I have found it much easier to live my life unharassed by using my magic outside of the view of others, which of course meant I had to learn to use some other form of weaponry to defend myself, travelling alone as often as I do. It so happens that a few staff makers see fit to add blades onto the ends – surely that trend has been noticed? – and I adopted the ready-made excuse."

To my amusement Alistair gapes like a fish for some seconds before he snaps his jaw shut unable to find a suitable reply.

"I suppose it also stems from an aversion to break my Healers Oaths." I add. "The same sort of nonsense as modern day oaths I should imagine – to not do harm to patients, especially with magic, etcetera."

This he grasps.

I smirk a little up at him. "Also not all magic I do is as… visible as throwing fireballs around. I use what my people call runes though you would more likely recognise them as glyphs, hexes and curses."

I see that Alistair has heard only a little of what I said and seemingly latched onto one word; "runes? I love them!" He states happily, now with big eager eyes bright with interest watching me hopefully.

I do smile at his enthusiasm – they were my first love. "We have a runic language of our own and I know some of the modern day scripts. Less than I would like I admit."

"I never got to spend much time studying them, but I know more than most, I think at least." His nose wrinkles up as he frowns at a memory. "Everyone was so busy trying to commit the Chant of Light to memory I got to sneak in a few rune books." He confides sotto voice.

I laugh in delight.

#

And that is how a tentative friendship was born between Alistair and I.


	5. Chapter 5: The Joining

**A/N. Sorry this is a little late; it was my birfday thursday, so I kninda forgot to upload, and then for some reason I dont quite understand, fanfic net isnt allowing me to upload my docx. I have copied and pasted this, so if the formatting is wonky, let me know so I can sort it.**

 **Shout out to JamesWalter6230 who is following my story now - six days late, sorry hun! I haven't forgotten you tho :)**

* * *

5.

The four twenty-something recruits are at this very moment crossing the Bridge to Avernus' rooms in the hopes of succeeding at the Joining Ritual to emerge as fully fledged Wardens. Earlier Alistair had confided his growing nervousness. I would not have guessed for his enthusiasm is the most visible of the four; his three fellows are less eager, the elf only just to be fair, and more worried about the secrecy.

I felt very guilty at the confession for while Avernus' new formula is more successful and without the shortened lifespan penalty there is still the matter of the infertility. Not that there seems to be a burning need for children amongst them just yet; I am sure they would not be joining a warrior group if that was the case, but in the years to come the need might take them, and then what?

I sigh quietly as I watch them ahead of me. Duncan has called us all to the ceremony, I included since I have been through a 'dry' ritual of my own, and informed me that an old friend I might recognise will be present too.

The tower is warm today, with roaring fires lit in the wrought-iron cauldron like braziers around the room, and less imposing with the sunny yellow and fierce orange flames. Avernus much prefers blue mage-fire in the plentiful wall scones unless his work calls for otherwise. The blue is apparently better for his eyesight and poor lungs. More imposing though.

Yesterday Amell and I accompanied the recruits on their quest to retrieve some Darkspawn blood – there was a small scouting party just emerged from a newly formed crack in the ground three miles to the northeast. Now I have proved myself in magical combat the sniping has lessened a small degree. Thank the gods for small mercies.

Said mage seems to be in a heated debate with Avernus in a far corner – a fine friend-rival relationship that will be – whilst Duncan is arranging the four recruits in a semi-circle around the one workbench Avernus consented to be cleared. Behind him a medium sized silver chalice gleams subtly in the torch light. The Joining Juice.

To Duncan's left, almost hidden in the shadows, a slight figures stands, a short-bow and half empty quiver slung across his back. I peer at the rugged features. He has not stood the test of time as well as Duncan has but I recognise the face as one of the others from the cells all those years ago.

I place myself slightly outside the rough circle just the other side of arms reach of Alistair on my left, closer to… Rhidoran I believe is the name, on my right. We exchange a curious glance but do not speak. He still smells of wood smoke and sweat and the scent of a body that has only been washed sparingly for a while (not pleasant but better than rotting flesh and disease and voided body fluids). The rouge has only just arrived then.

Alistair shifts restlessly – and therefore noisily due to the recruits retaking their armour for the ceremony – in nervousness and is abnormally quiet now; in contrast the elf is jovially engaging the room in nervous chatter and the raven haired man is making a rather poor attempt at answering. His eyes are wide and glassy as they watch Duncan fiddle with the chalice. The last man looks to be breaking his sword handle in the nervous vice grip he has. I do hope he doesn't try to draw his weapon.

With a silent gesture from Duncan we all stand to attention and Amell recites the ritual words. " _Join us, brothers and sisters. Join us in the shadows where we stand vigilant. Join us as we carry the duty that cannot be forsworn. And should you perish, know that your sacrifice will not be forgotten. And that one day we shall join you."_

Except that the common folk tend to fear or forget the Wardens unless the dark monsters are visible on the surface. Even I have not dedicated my life to the Wardens like I should have. Though I was not technically recruited; when they were told I was a Gypsy I was told I was an honourary Warden, asked to be present at a Joining and that was it. Not that it excuses me, for by assenting to the decision I became one in name and should have lived up to it.

I mentally shake the thoughts away; I have done much good in my life as a healer, more than if I had stayed sequestered away with the Wardens, and I do not regret my decisions.

A quiet scraping signals Duncan taking up the chalice. With my centuries of experience, I pick up the tangy metallic scent of blood… mixed with the sour corrosive unmistakable _wrong_ scent of taint.

I cannot say I was unhappy to avoid drinking the mixture.

We watch on as Duncan reverently hands the chalice to the now silent elf. His pointed nose wrinkles up at the smell I note. The Commander takes a half step back and solemnly awaits the elf's next move.

The blonde takes a huge gulp.

His eyes roll back.

Duncan swoops into action, snatching the chalice back as the elf begins to tip backwards. He seems to choke a little as his legs fold under his weight, like strings held him up but were suddenly cut, but before he drops too far Alistair and raven-locks each catch an elbow to break his fall.

They lower him to the floor where he remains for but a minute before he begins to shift from side to side, akin to thrashing, but weaker, and after another tense minute his eyelids flutter and the blonde elf comes to.

Duncan ducks onto his haunches to mutter words of welcome as the elf props himself groggily to his elbows. I note that raven-hair and Alistair seem to have relaxed. Despite herself Amell had leaned forward in concern and now sighs in relief. The brunette is in danger of fainting by the looks of his pallor.

The relieved quirk of his moustache leaves Duncan when he has to hand an emboldened Alistair the chalice.

"Smells like the Templar sock hamper." The strawberry-blonde mutters.

I choke trying to hold back an unfortunate laugh.

He is smiling as he takes a large swallow of the liquid but soon his face blanches and turns a little green. My heart stutters as he begins a nasty coughing fit. Please, Gods, not Alistair, please.

I find myself on my knees beside him as his fit subsides and the same weakness as the elf attacks him. Much to my relief the cold stone underneath his hands seems to bring him back to reality.

"You'll never complain about the taste of food again." I mutter as he remains on his knees to gather his strength.

He laughs hoarsely and I finally let out a breath I had not realised I had been holding. Raven locks next drinks the liquid, and like the elf he passes out in stoic silence, while Alistair regains his feet.

Unfortunately, the brunette – Maurice – does not make it. Almost as soon as the liquid hits his stomach he doubles over in agony and within a minute he is breathless on the floor. In another thirty seconds his body goes limp and he exhales his last breath.

We stand in silence – some of us solemn, others shocked into speechlessness – for maybe a few minutes before Duncan rouses himself to impart a few words of goodwill. Avernus not so smug now it turns out his new formula is not infallible quietly tells us about the little 'graveyard' around the back of the Keep he used when he lit his comrade's pyres all those years ago.

My people return to the earth when we die, but I have almost forgotten the practice in favour of the more common cremation in Thedas. In the few countries that do practice burial I usually burn the bodies due to the need to keep down infection or diseases in the populace.

"There is still much to discuss about your new brotherhood." Duncan begins, "but that can wait until tomorrow. Tonight we will send Maurice to the Maker's side and then the Dryden's have arranged a celebration for us."

#~#~#~

Levi joins us at Maurice's funeral pyre.

The Dryden's made short work of felling some trees to cut up for the pyre and within two hours of his death the Warden's carefully bring his body all the way down from Avernus' tower and lift him onto the wood pile.

Where we are being merely a quiet sheltered spot literally around the back of the Keep set against one of the slopes of the mountains. A low wall runs around to the front but back here it is half its height of the front.

I shiver. It is much colder here where the sun never reaches.

Until the pyre is lit at least. Avernus had poured a bottle of something sweetly scented over the body and I had pulled out my cleaning alcohol – yes cleaning; I would not recommend it for drinking unless one wishes to forget everything and cause themselves severe liver damage – to pour amongst the wood.

Alistair and Amell sing part of the Chant while the fire licks higher. I could not tell what part as I barely have a passing familiarity of it. Once the flames begin to consume the body though people are barely breathing without choking. The smell of burning flesh is a rather peculiar scent, very hard to describe honestly, sickly and a little stomach turning. People shy away from it even when they do not know what they smell, instinctively knowing it is not something they want a part of.

When we return to the courtyard it is dusk and the mess of tents and stalls and other needed structures had been cleared away to the edges in favour of five large fires surrounded by low benches. The Dryden's boisterously cheered the three new recruits and pressed chilled tankards into our hands.

To the far side of the courtyard another line of fire's stand but with huge cooking cauldrons suspended over them and many hot pans in the flames. The scent of meaty warming stew wafts over to us on the breeze. And now the floury scent of cooking dough and spices and cheese.

I take my place at a fire on the outer edge of the group. For all my time spend up in the warmer Upper Continent of Thedas, I do so prefer cooler climes like Ferelden and the Anderfells. Duncan finds himself in the middle next to Levi, Alistair sticking close to the older man, while Amell and the two other recruits peel off onto the next closest fires.

As soon as they sit I note the foods is being dished quickly up in the clay crockery most travellers use. The children are sent scurrying first to the Wardens – all having been warned of their appetite – and then the elders amongst the clan.

There is a pleasant hum of conversation in the meantime which I, as usual, contribute little to. My fireside companions are somewhat used to my laconic ways but at the same time it unnerves most of them and so they drag me unerringly into their conversations.

"You going with 'em when they leave?" I am asked abruptly.

I shrug. "Not unless they need me. There is much needed research to do here."

I am handed a steaming bowl of stew – proper chunky stuff only Ferelden is capable of making – and a crust of lovely fluffy garlic bread. Ferelden does not have the climate to grow exotic spices but prolific garlic, mint, rosemary and sage make for decent if unexciting flavourings.

Drinks are handed around like no one is meant to be sober by mid night; everything from strong Ferelden dry cider to stout and the Dryden's own brand of moonshine.

Levi hands me the first – and judging by the marking on the bottle – more potent of their alcohol. He and the blacksmith at least know I am a fairly heavy drinker, although I much prefer the smooth taste of whiskey.

I take a swig as half the party look on with baited breath. I spy Alistair and Duncan watching curiously from the corner of my eye. "Shit, Levi!" I sputter. "It tastes like fish!" I shriek.

Exactly the reaction the Dryden's are looking for if their uproarious laughter is any indication. I laugh wryly at myself. "Not complete trash though. Potent, if nothing else." I tell him taking another swig challengingly.

He laughingly leaves me with the bottle and moves on to hand the other out to any brave enough to try. I must remember to fetch my whiskey from the cart for him, cruel man, later in the night.


	6. Chapter 6: The Party

**A/N. Sorry this is a little late guys, had a busy couple of days and completely forgot about posting!**

 **I want to recommend a one-shot to you guys, by KyeShgall, called Glorious Pelt. Its hilarious. Go read. Like now!**

 **Anyway I hope you all are still enjoying the story, let me know! I do appreciate every single one of you! And thanks to FirePower123 for the spellchecks, especially in this chapter.**

* * *

6.

It is some hours later, not yet mid night but the crescent moon is already high in the sky, lending a small amount of silvery light to the roaring yellow of the fire's, the sky is clear and sparkling with stars, and the food has been demolished. The smell of food has mostly dissipated to be replaced with burning, smoke and the sharp scent of alcohol.

The party is in full swing, everyone deep in their cups, when a cast of the clan disappear into the shadows only to reappear seconds later with their arms full of a diverse range of instruments.

I grin as a tipsy cheer goes up and as the clan shift to settle themselves around the instrumentalists but with enough space in front for a decent amount of people to dance in. I take the time to grab the two remaining whiskey bottles from my cart. I leave a third behind because I need one at least for my healing duties.

I settle in the back of the group, content to sway with the folk music by myself for the moment. The sharp edges of loneliness and longing will creep up on me in a song or two, but by that time I plan on being drunk enough to finally join in the dancing without bitterness or much thought.

Of course Levi ruins my plans by sneaking up on me before I even open my first bottle, full cup a sloshing. "Hiding Esme?"

"Amadán adh beidh mé tú a mharú lá amháin!" I swear violently at the startle.

Several of the people around us, and Levi himself, gape at the unfamiliar language of my mother tongue. I do not have chance to use it much any longer and briefly I feel guilt that all I seem to use it for is to swear.

"Was t'ere sam't'in' 'ou wantad?" I ask curtly even as I try to swallow my accent down. Stick to the common tongue, Mia, you know well the mistrust foreigners find. Finally, I pry off the lid of my first bottle.

Instantly Levi blushes. "I, er, I wasgoing to askyou todance?"

I hesitate but despite my relative sobriety and my startle I find myself smiling up at him. At least I won't have to crane my neck too far to look up him; Levi is just the other side of five foot seven, to my five foot two. Compared to the average height of a Ferelden of about five ten or eleven.

So with a wholly devilish grin I am unsure I saw Levi grabs up my tiny free right hand – my left clutching the whiskey bottle – and leads me to the front of the crowd with the totally unneeded accompaniment of whoops and wolf-whistles.

Saluting the crowd with my opened bottle, of which I take a healthy swig, we launch into a lively Ferelden Folk Dance. Dancing is the one joy I have never tainted with death, but regrettably it is something I do not get to indulge in as often as I would like.

By the end of the song I have drunk _nearly_ half my bottle – some admittedly slopped down mine and Levi's fronts due to a rather exuberant yet poorly executed move – and am pleasantly tingly and tipsy.

Unfortunately for me the next song is another lively tune and before I can even turn back around to head into the crowd for my previous seat I am manoeuvred into another dance by the strong warrior arms of Duncan himself.

"Will you be staying in Ferelden long?" He asks after a couple of turns.

"Hmm?" I drag my mind forwards with difficulty. "Oh, aye, I have nought else ta go, and research ta do here besides." I cheerily answer with only a slight slur. When did I drink another third of the bottle?

He nods thoughtfully. I briefly wonder what is on his mind but honestly I am enjoying myself too much to inquire just yet.

"So you will be staying here for the future?" He asks lightly.

I squint. The question suddenly seems rather serious. "If its where ai'll be the most halp, yes." I reply slowly. "You know Avernus an' I have air little projects ta work on."

Duncan chuckles but for what reason I cannot think of. Oh mayhap the nearly empty bottle in my hand. I wonder what happened to the other bottle of mine. I vaguely remember putting it at my feet. Oh well there is plenty of moonshine around.

When the dance eventually ends I make a beeline for the crowd, handily ducking the Blacksmith I spy coming in on my left, even as my limbs buzz slightly weightlessly. I think that earlier mug or three of moonshine has caught up with me.

I find my bottle in the hands of one of the female traders – cannot remember her name right then – not untouched, but more than half full, and take her cheese roll as payment.

However as soon as I stuff the last bite into my mouth the Blacksmith has found me and at the front in the clear space I blearily realise the floodgates have been opened; a line of Dryden's seems to be waiting for a dance.

I need more alcohol.

The next time I have a minute to myself I look to the sky again to see the bright moon has gone past its zenith by an hour or two. Clouds are obscuring the stars to what I hesitantly think of as East. The night is still warm. Or maybe that's just me.

"Esme?"

I whip around. Alistair! "Hallo Handsame!" I greet enthusiastically.

A grin is nearly splitting his face in half. Looks like it hurts a little. "I think you are very drunk, Esme."

I laugh. "Maaaybe ah little!" I agree easily, distracted by the line of his jaw and the neat dusting of stubble decorating it.

Before I know it we are in the middle of the dance area again moving to yet another traditional dance, though this a little slower than the ones I prefer. My body seems to know what it's doing even if my swimming brain does not.

"Duncan says you're staying?"

I grin up – way up… Alistair's like six foot – at him. "Yah. I cannea resist te Ferelden men, y'a see." I whisper. Probably loudly. I give a squeeze to the hard unarmoured bicep under my right hand.

His cheeks grow adorably rosy in the firelight but his light laugh distracts me.

#~#~#

The next day the courtyard is eerily silent in deference to the state of the clan and our guests. I emerge from my tent – pitched in a cosy little corner of my own far from the hustle of normal tents – slowly to find only a few women up already making breakfast.

My poor stomach quakes sickly but I am otherwise fine. I drink often. According to Camellia, Levi, amongst others, has been back and forth to the bushes to empty his stomach several times in the last couple of hours.

I snicker to myself.

Avernus will not thank me to enter his abode smelling so strongly of alcohol as I do thus I intend to head to the first barracks bathing area – a medium sized room housing copper lined wooden tubs – for a quick scrub down. I have my own tub but the Warden ones are much larger, private (where in the courtyard is private exactly?), and have a line directly to a Well for water which means I will only have to haul the bucket a few steps instead of all the way across the courtyard.

Cleaning the kitchen and the baths where the first two things we did after ridding the Keep of its demons, and luckily the four rooms (one bathroom per dormitory) were the least damaged of them all. The copper was in rather bad shape, but easy to replace.

One of the best perks of being a mage is the ability to heat water by just dipping a little into your magic and releasing it, and with nary a thought what was once ice-cold is now exactly the warmth you want it, no waiting around for hot rock to finally be ready, no pre-planning at all.

I sigh with pleasure, stretching my forever cold toes out, a good foot between them and the other end of the tub.

To my embarrassment I doze off in the tub, waking when it begins to turn truly cold, but I am still alone so I dry and dress, taking my nightclothes and soaps back to my tent before returning to the Keep to track down Alistair.

I meet him on the stairs going up to the second floor; his expression is one of pure mischievousness until he realises that I am not suffering any effects from the party. Once realised he looks very put out and disappointed

"I am far too old and used to heavy alcohol consumption." I inform him dryly.

He pouts for a full second before suddenly giggling. "I woke up my fellows by 'accidentally' tripping over their piled up armour." He blurts.

I do not know whether to grin or roll my eyes, so I do both. "You are a cruel man, Alistair." I state with poorly hidden mirth. I motion for him to follow as I turn to descend the stairs back to the ground floor. "What exactly did you have in store for me?" I ask morbidly curious.

He giggles again. A very boyish sound. I wonder how old he is? "I was hoping some of those cauldrons where still around…" he trails off.

I snort. "Forget cruel, just Pure Evil." I correct, throwing a smile over my shoulder.

He laughs and tries a wide-eyed innocent face.

"Oh I know better now, Alistair, you fool me no longer." I waggle a finger for effect.

His eyes sparkle with fun. "Well damn." He jokes.

I honestly cannot help the laugh that comes out. You know, the one that rises up from the belly and cannot be contained in the throat? My face aches with it. I stop on the landing to use the wall for support.

"Oh my, I haven't laughed like that for a very long time." I excuse myself. With a wave I continue on, leading him to the archives and through to the door on the opposite side of the room. "You bring out the child in me." I tell him. My smile turns a little sad at the corners.

"How old are you Esme?" he asks with a light frown.

I shift a little discomforted. This is the part I hate. So much older. "Oh… six hundred and twenty years." I estimate quickly. "I only know that because I was born the year the Third Blight began."

The strawberry-blonde is clearly stunned.

"I know; I look not much older than you." I scrabble for something funny to say. "It's all the road dust; surprisingly good for the skin."

He blinks but comes back to himself with the off-colour humour. "I definitely need to travel." He replies. "But, I mean, I was expecting maybe one or two hundred, but six?"

I shrug. What else is there to say really?

Silently we enter the library. Since it is located in a tower the expected several floors of books are present, yet it still takes my breath away looking up to see all those mostly undamaged spines sitting contently in their shelves. I itch to read every last one.

Alistair inhales sharply – a mistake for it is dusty and musty in here.

A ladder to our left shows the way to the upper floors, made of dark hard-wood planks (that weathered the test of time surprisingly well) instead of stonework like the rest of the Keep, to everyone's puzzlement. The solid wood does lend a comfier feel to the room, I guess.

In the middle of the tower on our floor are six bench and table sets, able to seat four abreast. The benches did have padding but that was eaten away by the mothballs and has yet to be replaced.

"The one thing I regret about travelling – no library." I admit with a smile to my heretofore quiet companion.

He smiles back. "It's great, large, but why are we in here?"

I gesture to a table already laden with books, parchment and quills. "Runes." I word with a flourish. Predictably he perks up. "I know Duncan said he was not planning to stay much longer, so I though you would appreciate spending some of your remaining time in here studying runes."

His smile is all soft and shy like a scared kitten. "That's… thanks Esme."

I feel my cheeks heat with a blush. Awkward. "Well go ahead and find a seat." I briskly motion to the laden table to cover for the emotional moment. I had prepared this last night in a fit of drunken brilliance, so I am unsurprised to find a tankard of moonshine perched on the bench, and that the books, parchment and quills are sloppily thrown on the table.

As he sits Alistair fastidiously neatens the equipment around him, pulling a three high pile of books to his right side, and the quill and inkpot to his left. Huh, and here I though left-handed literacy was beaten out of you nowadays.

I take a seat on his right, where I am safe from sharp elbows. "So what first?" I indicate the three books he pulled close. "Those you might recognise as starter books. One for Tevinter, one for Dwarvish, and a primer for making actual runes. I flicked through them a couple of weeks ago and the bad news is that they are out of date." I eye the books briefly; all three are a dull maroon colour with faded gold engraving around the edges of the covers. "The good news is that more up to date books are a copper a dozen and Levi managed to get a hold of a few for me." I flick my fingers in the direction of a five stack of varying dull shades.

"So why keep these?" Alistair asks bemusedly.

I shrug. "It is interesting, at least to me, to compare the differences. The process itself has been refined in only a few simple ways, that were reached by lots of fatal experimentation. Lyrium is a strange substance. But the core runes themselves have not changed at all." I shake the thread of thoughts from my head. "Another idea, one I was not sure you would be interested in, is learning a new runic language?"

"A new one? I wasn't aware there was another, the elves didn't seem to bother."

I smirk sardonically. "Why bother when you have magic and no ability to safely use Lyrium? And of course they are traditionally an oral culture with no real need of a written language -"

Alistair frowns. "Don't they forget stuff?"

I snort. "They would say not, but of course they do, and what may seem important to one person may not be to another, stories and emphasis get lost and it's a wonder they have traditions left." I shake my head. "Regardless, I was not talking about Elvhen. My people have a mixed oral and written culture – more the former due to our wandering ways admittedly. Our written langue is in runic form."

For a minute he is silent as he ponders the offer I made. "You'd teach me your language? Isn't it forbidden to outsiders or something?" He finally asks both seriously but with a humourous undertone.

I manage a sharp smile. "Or something." I agree.

He barks out a little devilish laugh.


	7. Chapter 7: Truths

**A/N. So i'm gonna be a little busy over my usual up-dating period this weekend - nothing too exciting unfortunately, but i will be without both my laptop and my USB - thus I am updating way before schedule sosa I don't forget!**

 **Shout-out to FirePower123 (I recognise your name btw but not sure where from) who has r &r'd my first couple of chapters. I have been doing the spelling/grammer corrections you toldme about, and your other review made my month :D**

* * *

7.

Fed up at last – no easy feat, my wick is long and slow to burn – I growl and stalk from the chilly room. Avernus snipes something at my back but for my own sanity I listen to the pounding blood in my ears instead.

"Mac irascible aois an striapaigh." I mutter.

If only the tosspot looked past his own massive ego (no doubt contained mostly in those large ears of his) he might actually see that my ideas have merit. Now it will take him twice as long to figure out I was right from the fucking start.

Just because I was not formally educated in any of the Mages Circles he seems to believe I am some sort of barbarian hedge healer with no idea of how the body really works, all evidence to the contrary totally dismissed.

At least out in the world the common folk have enough sense to not continue questioning me after I have healed someone. They do not know the difference between circle trained or not, or if they do, they do not care.

I continue to storm through the Keep unmolested; the few Dryden's inside sensible enough to scuttle from my path. I may only be a little thing – lithe as well as short – but I have bested their few swordsmen in training and my magic is a feeling to behold; people tell me that it feels heavy and static like the air just before a thunderstorm, like that at any second a fork of lightening will smash into them without mercy.

For the most part my magic like my emotions tends to be calm and unobtrusive, with the more sensitive people saying – particularly when I Heal them – that it feels like a rush of cool water, or a sweet breeze on an overly warm day.

Not now.

I make it to the steps down into the courtyard before one of the men I tend to battle with dares accosts me. A snarled gypsy epithet puts him in his place. Victoriously I sweep out onto the ever-present snow.

Winter is creeping in now, and past experience has shown that in Ferelden the snow can get anywhere from knee to hip height (on an average human), and deeper in the mountain passes. I am a little worried that the courtyard will fill up with snow and force me inside.

However, the fresh air calms me a little, allowing me to pull my magic tightly back under control, while I carefully skirt the edges of the busy courtyard towards the stables, studiously ignoring the few that hail me.

The many oxen snort and shift restlessly as I plunge into their abode. The beasts are not stupid; they know to steer clear of a mage in a bad mood.

I come upon Rowans stable with eagerness, for her sweet gentle nature is the quickest way for me to shake off the frustrations of the day. My eagerness is short-lived. Someone has already decided to garner her attention.

Alistair whips around with a face black like thunder-clouds. It barely lightens when he recognises me in the dim light. I spy my crate of brushes balanced in his left hand.

"One of those days?" I acknowledge sourly in comradeship. He grunts and pointedly looks over my shoulder so I turn back around and lead him out away from the worst of the ox stench.

Like the first time we brushed Rowan, we do it in silence, slightly strained today due to our dark moods, not that she cares at all. As soon as the first brush sweeps her shoulder her muscles relax and her head dips in contentment.

The rhythmic motions calm me; my mind blanks, all arguments, dark musings, bad moods and ceaseless circling demon voices fade to the back of my mind as I apply just a little pressure against her hide. So too does the general noise of the courtyard behind us – the hustle of bodies, the noises of industry from the blacksmith and potter and the carpenter – much to my relief.

I had not realised how much the everyday noises of Soldiers Peak had wound me up; in my youth these noises would have been nearly exactly the same as those my clan had made; they were reassuring then because I knew I was not alone. During my Healing Mastery I left clan life and only lived in a tiny quiet commune with half a dozen others, and then when I permanently left the clans I was completely alone in the wild with just the sounds of nature and my cart for company.

Then there was all the noise of the sick- the moans, retching, the wet expelling of other fluids, weeping, rattling breaths in chests like death knells – and the din of war; shouts and snarls, screeches of metal on metal and the wet shucking and sucking of metal through flesh, screams of agony and the terrified whispers of the dying, prayers from people that don't believe in the Maker but need to do _something_ in their last moments.

I find myself gasping and nearly brain myself with a brush when I clamp my hands over my ears. Alistair startles I note dimly. Too much noise. Too much blood! And gore and death, so much death.

Anáil anáil amháin dhá anáil trí ceathair cúig.

A sharp wicker from Rowan and a warm hand clamping down hard on my shoulder interrupts my attempt at calming my memories and breathing, but thankfully it also interrupts all my thoughts and I manage to pull my magic and mind back under my control. Twice in one day, Mia, excellent. Way to inspire Templar confidence.

"Gods Mercy, I am a mess today." I confess stupidly.

The hand on my shoulder tightens briefly in what I imagine as sympathy before it is silently withdrawn. Rowan burr's restlessly but is calm none-the-less. She has experienced much of the same since she came to me.

I do not bother to heal the bruise I can feel developing on my temple – why waste magic for something so trivial? I chance a glance at Alistair; his expression is less thunderous now yet unexpectedly when his eyes flick to me they show concern and deep anger.

Dread flops heavily into my stomach ('like a dying fish' my still slightly messy brain supplies unhelpfully).

After another minute or two of silence – this time very awkward – I reluctantly, and with no small amount of trepidation, ask after Alistair's black mood.

I flinch in shock and a little fear as he turns and smashes his foot against the brush crate – not kick, far, far too angry and violent to be called a kick – knocking it clear into the stables, brushes tumbling out as it goes.

Rowans screams and bolts. I let her go; I have trained her to find thick brush cover if she is ever frightened. I have also been kicked by a horse before and know exactly how much damage they can do.

Alistair is huffing, his chest heaving as if he had been running for miles, his whole body line tense with repressed anger. So much anger I can feel it rolling off him in hot waves. My magic prickles slightly; is he going to Smite me?

I take a wary step back when he once again whips around to face me. This is a rage of deep loss. I ready myself to duck because I see he still has a brush tightly clenched in his left hand.

Instead he turns back to the stable and lobs it with so much force I instantly know he wrenched his arm something fierce. Somehow I do not think he would be willing to be subjected to my magic today.

"Did you know?" He asks without turning around.

The question catches me off guard, but that dead fish of dread flops in my belly again and my hesitation is rather telling, I feel.

"Esme?" He asks. He turns back to me then and the anger is back swimming in his hazel eyes. I swallow around a lump in my throat. "Please say you didn't know?"

Tears instantly form, obscuring my vision, but I do not need to see because Alistair lets out a heart-wrenching sound somewhere between a 'no' and a howl. For the first time in centuries I feel shame so heavily I crumple in on myself to stay standing.

"I thought you were my friend!" He yells out huskily, his throat closing up around his anger and grief for what can never be. "I thought- why didn't you tell me!?" He closes his mouth just in time to muffle a sob.

A tear falls but I brush it away impatiently. I do not deserve the release of tears. "I am truly sorry!" I manage to spit out hoarsely. I know it is not enough.

"Did you think it funny?!" He presses, "did you giggle to yourself, poor stupid Alistair, wanting nothing but a family in his life?"

The words cut deeply into my soul. Far more painful than a dagger, than poison, "NO!" the word tears through me and the air surrounding us. "Never!" I protest feebly. I am aloof but not cruel!

"So why didn't you say anything?" He bellows, hurt all over again. All sounds cease in the courtyard. We do not care.

"Because you would have tried to leave, Alistair, and no one is allowed to leave!" I exclaim nearly as loudly. Another hot tear falls.

"Allowed! Allowed to – we aren't prisoners –"

"Yes you are!" I shriek. We both flinch away from the sound. I didn't know I could reach that pitch. "I have seen…" I begin in a much quieter voice. I hang my head, knowing how shattering this next confession will be. "I have seen recruits be killed for trying to back out of the joining, or refusing to go back to the company."

Silence follows my confession. Alistair has blanched to a horrible shade of chalk white. Guilt squirms low in my stomach.

"Maybe I would have preferred that to not having children." He finally states.

My tears well and fall in a steady stream at his voiced thought. It is not the first time a Warden has confessed such – it is doubtlessly the number one reason recruits regret coming to the Wardens, well above the limited lifespan and military life – but it is so much harder to hear from a friend.

"Then go, Alistair." I reply tiredly. "Go, and Duncan will find you and if you put up a fight, draw your sword on him, he will grant your wish."

Heavy silence rings between us. After the initial bout of shouting the normal sounds of the courtyard had resumed – no cries of pain or death forthcoming and everyone loses interest.

All through our fight I had managed to keep hold of the brush I nearly brained myself with earlier thus I now use it as a good excuse to stop looking at my stricken companion. I scoop up the first brush only to hear his heavy footsteps follow up behind me, but stay at a distance until I re-enter the stables.

"I never got the phrase 'between a rock and a hard place' before." He muses quietly. I chuckle sadly. "I guess that's where you were at." He sighs. "I'm sorry for yelling… you did what you thought was best."

Hypocrisy burns in my eyes and at the back of my throat but I turn to look him in the eye. "There is no need, Al, you have every right to be angry; I certainly would be in your place. I knew I should have explained before the ritual but I did not..."

A hand rises to card through his short reddish-blonde locks; a universal sign of frustration. "For what? I don't actually want to die. Duncan saved me from the Templars - this is my chance to do what I want, not what everyone else chose for me."

I make a face of disagreement but say nothing for a moment. "I always say to any Warden that asks that recruits should make an informed choice. I cannot believe that at a point to assert my beliefs I would be such a hypocrite."

Apathy. Or was it? I have never failed to step in when people need healing, but what have I done outside of that? Helped the Wardens? Not often. Joined a War? Not because I feel particularly inspired by either side, but because of my duty, and if neither side was Ferelden I did not care who I attached myself too.

Suddenly I feel all my years press down on my shoulders.

"Esme?" His large warm hand drops onto my shoulder again. Gods when was the last time I shared anything more than a handshake or a two second hug? A flash of half-forgotten memory springs from the depths of my memory.

"I… A rare mage had been recruited into the Wardens – many years ago this was – he was a healer but very young. Not even eighteen at the time. He picked my brains as you might imagine." I blink as the hazy memory unfolds. I hugged him as he wept "He smelt of honey, I remember that much, and he was devastated at his infertility – he thought the Wardens would give him freedom, especially to have a child.

Yet he was doubtful of his Commanders words." I frown as the memory slips away. "what was it that he said? Oh, the emphasis the Commander put on the words. _Wardens_. Not 'a Warden', not 'you' or 'we'."

There is a strange silence between us. I look on considering as Alistair opens his mouth to try and dispute my comment only to pause – mouth still open – with an air of confusion. It makes me smile internally. "You know Duncan was rather terse about the whole thing." He finally states in agreement. "But then he – and Amell because she's a nosey eavesdropping know-it-all – both said they'd never heard of Warden's having children."

I laugh briefly at Alistair's uncomplimentary description on the mage. "And how far travelled are they?" I retort, but his reply has made me think. "I have never heard of them either, but then again, I was not looking for Warden children. Moreover, consider that the parent had to leave the child behind for its sake and did not want to talk of the heartache, or that the parent had successfully evaded the Wardens, which meant disappearing nearly completely from the world."

Alistair leans his tall frame against the stable wall as he ponders this. I can see hope slowly creep along the tight lines of his face, smoothing the ridges and lighting him up from the inside.

I consider my next words carefully. "All rumours and myths have some sort of truth buried at their heart, Al, as such I would not dismiss the possibility."

He lets out a shuddering breath of what can only be hope and joy. "Well then, I've just got to find a woman who'll put up with me!" he blurts with a laugh.

I smile in response.

* * *

 **P.S FirePower123 messaged me to say she was one of the people who had commented on the draft version of this story, which I totally remember now, duuuuh. lol.**


	8. Chapter 8: Bad news

**A/N. Sorry for the late update, no excuses really.**

 **There are now only two more chapters to be posted! I know, its nowhere near finished, and I assure you all that I am still working on it, but its gonna be an epic (I cant even say how many chapters, that's how long it could turn out), and I just couldn't wait to put the whole thing up.**

 **So this is gonna be a mini story, and it will finish at a place that makes it... self contained. It'll make sense eventually, I swear!**

* * *

8.

One month (really only one month? It feels like I have known Alistair for six at least) after their arrival Duncan announces at dinner that the group are to leave for the capital, to return back to their Headquarters near the Palace, soon.

No leaving party is organised for it is a sad occasion; the entirety of the Keeps residents will miss the group very much. Or rather Amell might miss Avernus a little, and I will sorely miss Alistair and maybe Levi will miss Duncan.

The Dryden Clan do make it their personal quest to ensure the ever-ravenous Wardens will not want for food on their two-week long journey back to Denerim. Even the Warden's seem a little bemused at the bulk they are loaded with – well Alistair looks delighted actually.

"Write me Alistair." I order with a smile.

The cheeky sod salutes me, making me chuckle, "of course – where else will I learn my runes?"

I find myself pouting. "Is that all I am good for?"

He grins and adds, "and healing."

I roll my eyes. "I walked straight into that one."

"As if you never saw it coming!" He laughs, "but seriously, I'll write."

We share a brief yet slightly uncomfortable hug before Duncan chivvies the already restless group further towards the caves entrance; Levi and I came down to see the group off properly. Amell glares at me before sweeping into the shadowed cave.

"Safe travels." I bid them.

With a wave the rest of the group files after the supercilious mage. Now Soldiers Peak is somewhat habitable Duncan is hoping to get some Royal support to complete the repairs and make it a secondary base by spring.

#~#~#~#

Alistair is the first to write to my surprise. Then again I am researching and cleaning during my days while he is merely on the march. It has not even been three days but he cannot wait to recommence his runes; he literally wrote with charcoal on a scrap of nearly see through parchment. Daft man. I send a reply back on a larger thicker piece and tell him off for his impatience.

#~#~#~#

His next letter arrives two days' shy of a fortnight later. They arrived in the capital safely. Their headquarters near the palace is fairly cosy but without a large library like the Keep. They have a very good training area though.

#~#~#~#

From there our letters are exchanged fairly regularly – my grammar and spelling improving with the constant practise (I was taught to write in Common during one of my early war careers and I have rarely done it since) – postage willing. It is reasonably reliable along the coastline and into the Bannorn, and after the first couple of runs the messenger finally learnt where the cave entrance was.

Our runes lessons are continuing fairly quickly since we both have a better than common knowledge of them. Within the first month we have progressed onto whole 'sentence' structures – not that type of sentence; with the Tevinter runes we cannot carry on a conversation because those runes read like attributes instead of a language. 'Wind' for movement speed for example. The Tevinter runes are used solely for weapons, armour and rituals unlike my native language, which Alistair does not want to learn just yet.

#~#~#~#

Two months since the Warden party left us a courier passes Levi a letter and a weighty bag of gold. Enough for the essential repairs to the stonework he had described to Duncan. The seal on the letter has Levi stuttering in awe; the unmistakable Mabari rampant on the Ferelden coat of arms.

Well, well. It _is_ true that the Wardens are favoured by the King. In most of the other countries the Wardens are usually only sponsored by the throne grudgingly – although in the Anderfels the Wardens are the throne, but that is a different matter – and Ferelden has literally not had a Warden presence since Levi's great grandmother rebelled. How fortunes have turned.

#~#~#~#

The more weeks pass the more we speak of our days and ourselves rather than just talking runes. Alistair's childish observations, sarcastic and silly humour, and immature whining often has me breathless with laughter. My own dry responses and wry remarks only seem to egg him on.

Too soon the letters become the bright spot of my weeks. I find my days dragging and my research flagging on the days they are due. Avernus particularly tries my patience now, his dour disposition now a sour contrast to the letters, and my work to strengthen the veil is lonely and underappreciated.

I am starting to miss travelling on the road to heal at my leisure; I catch myself wishing I had left with the Wardens. Being a Master Healer is a large part of me – not the sum of me; I am gypsy, mage, bookish, introverted and slow to anger – that I enjoy and miss when I am not practising my 'art'.

#~#~#~#

The new year rolls in during a week of snow flurry. The party was no less raucous for being forced inside – we had in fact been forced inside for about two weeks beforehand because of the deep snow – actually I would happily admit it was somewhat better; finding half the clan passed out in various curious places (over the balcony rails in the library being the tamest) was too funny.

#~#~#~#

Four months after the Wardens left Soldiers Peak a letter from Alistair comes at an irregular interval, gaining a whole crowd of nervous attendee's. Our regular correspondence had become a subject of minor interest amongst the Clan since Levi and Duncan passed on their own messages through our innocuous letters.

The worst of the winter has passed now; snow is still falling, but not in the same volume as late 3:29, and while the wind is still cuttingly cold, nevertheless half the Clan seemed to be suffering from cabin fever so we all poured outside to clear the courtyard for some large bonfires.

I stand by one now to use the light to read Alistair's chicken scratch. Levi is instantly hovering at my side, anxious, yet with enough decency to not read the letter over my shoulder. He is right to be worried.

"The rumours of Darkspawn in the South seem to be true." I gravely announce after a quick skim. "According to Alistair's fellows there are far more than first thought."

Levi looks distinctly pale. I feel fairly alarmed myself.

"The Wardens and a contingent of the Ferelden Army are marching down south as we speak – to an old Tevinter ruin called Ostegar," I calculate quickly, "they should be nearing the halfway point soon then."

"Is there anything we can do?" Levi asks fretfully.

"Hmm, perhaps sending some supplies?" I venture. "Even if they are not all needed we should get news sooner."

He nods thoughtfully. I notice an old frown line appear. "Preserved foods, maybe some spare leather and bits of metal for the quartermasters, and cloth for tents."

I shrug. "You would know better than I since you supplied the Rebellion. However, I will make up and send a batch of Healing potions and poultices. Gods willing, they will not be used, but better safe than sorry." I tuck the letter into a pouch on my belt.

"How quickly can you make the potions?" He asks.

"Oh not long. A few days for a decent batch if people are willing to help. There are not a lot of complicated steps; it is just that the brewing takes a long time and needs to be watched fairly closely."

Levi nods along. "I know a few of our women have some experience; if you get set up I will let them know."

I smile in gratitude and with a pained sigh I leave the comforting warmth of the bonfires to scout out a large clear space sheltered up against one of the courtyard battlement walls.

I will need to bring down much of the equipment from Avernus' rooms, and I fear I will be using up much of our supply of herbs and bandages. Well it cannot be helped and we are in a position to get more at least.

#~#~#~#

Our mock up supplies are gathered and distributed surprisingly quickly. The Dryden's seems to find harsh conditions and time limits as a challenge rather than insurmountable impediments – I have quickly come to respect them, even if I am not particularly friendly with most of the Clan.

The troops were situated at Ostegar for about a month before our supplies reached them, and it seems that immediately a reply was sent back – one an official Thank You from the King (the familiar mabari seal a dead give-away) and one from Alistair with a post-note from Duncan. More of the dark creatures are popping to the surface every day.

Alistair tells, in gruesome vivid detail, of his first encounter with the Darkspawn – the dead eyes, rotting flesh, ferocious one-mindedness, and the cloying stink of decay and sulfuric taint. Nothing like the tightly controlled conditions Duncan arranged for their joining; this was real battle, one on one.

Yet his letters are still of the same upbeat Alistair tone which instead of lifting my spirits as you would imagine, only seems to dampen them. It will be a terrible day when sunny Alistair becomes war-torn.

Oh yes, that is where we are headed, war. Blight. The signs are there even if Alistair does not recognise them; the first being increased surface presence (of darkspawn) – being seen by villages instead of the odd wanderer, which is a sign that they are forming into scouting parties – the second sign is the graduating restless sleep amongst the Wardens, and most worryingly is that no matter how many surface breaches are closed, more still seem to open.

It all reeks of an organisation the Darkspwan are only known for at one time; a Blight, when they have tainted and awoken a Tevinter Old God, now known as a Archdemon. Their shared taint acts as a hive-mind, and the intelligent Archdemon directs them into invading the surface.

What a terrible time to be a Warden, Al, although I suppose he is lucky enough to be new; it is the oldest Wardens that have the first chance to kill the Archdemon.

#~#~#~#

It has now been seven months since the Warden party left Soldiers Peak, and nearly three months since the Wardens and a company of the Kings men travelled to Ostegar in the South Reaches to rout a large Darkspawn invasion.

What started off as a select company and half the Wardens chasing a small infestation in the Kokari Wilds – home of the Witch Flemeth last I heard – has now progressed into a full blown battalion with more soldiers on the way.

The King himself rode down south _just_ less than a month ago, elite guards and all, collecting most of the Bannorn's men along the way. Alistair says that Highever, Amaranthine and Redcliff are mustering to join by the end of the month.

I have been sending so many healing supplies that I have decided enough is enough; my work at the Keep is fascinating and important – we have _finally_ made a little progress for the cure of the taint – but stopping what is obviously a Blight is far higher on my list of priorities, and as a honourary Warden, my actual responsibility.

Like with the Warden party the entirety of the Dryden Clan congregates in the courtyard to see me off. The atmosphere is solemn but familial and proud. A resonating pang resounds in my chest, taking me by surprise, but I smile and accept that I belong in a Clan once again.

Levi patiently waits at my knees, patting Rowan as she shifts restlessly between my legs – she is excited to be on the move again – to give me some last instructions and parting words. I lean down far enough to press my cheek to his temple in a sort-of-hug.

"Good luck Esme." He bids me quietly. His expression is a study of worry and pride and self-recrimination. "I wish I had the skills to go with you."

I start to shake my head before he even finishes the sentence. "We need supply lines, you know that, Levi, you – all of you – are just as important as the foot soldiers. We cannot run on empty stomachs." I assure my old friend. "I will send you a letter when I get to Lothering; I imagine I will be too busy to remember at Ostegar."

"I don't envy you that." He mutters.

With a little sad laugh I pat his shoulder one last time before flicking the reins of Rowans harness. With a little lurch my cart is pulled straight into the tunnels separating us from the rest of Ferelden.

Some of my normal accouterments have been left behind under Avernus' watchful eyes; my few books and potion making kits for example, leaving my cart a little lighter than normal. If one where to look into the chest I use for my healer equipment you would think me more likely to be a butcher, or maybe a torturer, due to my instruments like bone saws, splints, sharpening stones and scalpels.

My normal (slightly re-worked) healer's raiment has had its chainmail and plate attached, my leggings swapped for thick leather, and in my second chest my 'heavy' armour (a leather full suit with a silverite chest-plate and half gauntlets) resides under numerous potions and poultice kits in case I am called to battle.

The screams of war echo dully in my ears – I swear there is an answering scream in the caves – and the scent of death has already deadened my sense of smell.

I do not expect to be getting much sleep until the Blight in truly over.

* * *

 **P.S I may have fiddled with locations a little: Soldiers Peak in my story is closer to the Circle Tower and Orzammar than Denerim like it is in the games. I didn't realise until I played the game again well after I had written this chapter. Oops XD**


	9. Chapter 9: The race

**A/N. Oh wow this is the second to last chapter for me to put up! More are being written, never fear readers, but its a slow process and i'd hate to get writers block and never finish this fic. I abhor when that happens.**

 **Apologies for the written accent later on this chapter, I was going for an Irish affect if anyone was wondering.**

 **Thank you for sticking with me, guys!**

* * *

9.

My days once again are quiet and lonely. I had not realised the depth of the comradeship I had felt for the Dryden Clan. I mean I hardly knew any of them – barely remembered some of their names, talked to less than half of them – but I feel sad to have left their company.

I also feel an unusual sense of urgency this time. Of course normally I need to get to my destination quickly or lives will be lost, but this time I feel so compelled I barely let us rest each day. I know why, I admit to myself one cloudy night, it is because I have friends in this war whereas before the bonds of friendship came during the fighting. It was all we knew, and we knew that we might die at any time, and I think those bonds where easier to suppress because of it.

Honestly I fret for Alistair the most. He has never seen the world. Seen how truly cruel the place can be. He has never been in a fight. A real one, with enemies who are actually enemies trying to kill you, not your friends or comrades testing your limits. Pushed into enemies so fearsome the general population only whisper about them in legends.

This bond of friendship may just get me killed; I have seen it often enough, friends and lovers taking killing blows for each other. But then I have lived a long time, and maybe it will be a good death, a death I can be proud of instead of finally succumbing to one of the nasty diseases I come into contact with on a fairly regular basis.

#~#~#~

I am over the halfway point in my journey when I begin to hear the rumours.

They are vague, which makes them all the more upsetting.

From what little I have gathered when travelling through the little farming villages, one of the Arl's entire armies quit the battlefield midway through the battle. Just strolled off the field and left everyone to die.

People are split, some angry, some incredulous, some do not believe at all. I believe because Darkspawn are fearsome enough to make veteran soldiers quail.

I am panicking days before I get to Lothering, so much so that I write to Levi about it all and urge him – rather desperately, or maybe despairingly – to seek out and corral any stray Wardens even though they all should have been at Ostegar.

In the closest villages to Lothering – otherwise known as 'the southern crossroads' for its location around Ferelden's Highways as they meet in the south – I encounter the fleeing soldiers.

Not quite deserters, but not seen in glory like those dead on the battlefield. Cowards at best. Self-preservationists I call them. I cannot judge because I have had cause a few times in my life.

From these terrified and haunted people, I learn The Truth, as we later come to call it. The Darkspawn numbers were overwhelming, far more than any correspondence could explain, and they tore through the troops like a hot knife through butter. General Logain and his army were stationed further away to execute a sort of pincer manoeuvre on the enemy; they were to move in when a signal fire was lit.

A sound plan, aside from two things; the numbers of the enemy and the signal was lit late. The General quit the Battlefield instead.

Would he and his men have made a difference? Gods only know, it sounds not likely to me, but everyone is angry. He was their Hero – the Hero of Riverdane – and his actions were not one of a Hero, and he disobeyed the Kings plan which many seem to be angrier about. The people do love their Royal Family.

Worst still… All the Wardens were in the front line with their King.

Few times in my long life have I felt the earth I walk drop away from me due to such total bodily dread. The last time was the plague that rushed through Antiva a few hundred years ago; it was when I found out the scale of the devastation. A sense of doom so strong it gives you shivers, your soul contracts in horror, and your steps falter as if the weight of your knowledge cannot be borne on your legs.

I was only vaguely aware of the solider leaving. The barman of the tavern waved some whiskey under my nose which brought me back enough that I ceased my stuttering and left whatever small village I had stopped in.

My mind immediately began a sluggish refrain of denial 'no nono no (not Alistair) no nono no' offset by the heaviness of my heart and the merciless whispering laughs of the demons that constantly torment us mages.

Frantically I push my cart on to Lothering, for what other path is there? I know only that those Tainted Wardens can stop the Blight (how though? I wonder in the recesses of my mind).

If there are truly none left, then Ferelden will soon be doomed. I pray to my Gods and even the Human's Maker, that one will be left somewhere, injured but alive.

#~#~#~#

Lothering due to its location at the Highway crossroads has a healthy trade, made up mostly of food stuffs and cloth, but with a few poorer quality items you would find in cities. On its North and West sides, it is blessed with lush farmland perfect for crop and animal alike, with its one large iconic Windmill, large stone Chantry and large busy tavern.

Many would call it an ideal village, I think it too big for my tastes, but I can admit that it is a lovely place; neat wooden houses with decent space from their neighbours, nicely tended gardens, the people hardworking and cheerful. Or was. The farms range from three miles from the centre of the village, and at first I see nothing wrong, but after passing the Windmill which seems to be the outer boundary for the village I notice something.

It does not seem so bustling. There is a distinct lack of people out in their fields or around their homes and lanes. No children are peering above fences or getting under my horse's hooves.

Finally, when I cross the stream that runs through the middle of the village, I spy the truth of the village. On this side of Lothering, the south side, is the Chantry and its own farmland and few poorer houses and small farms, but what catches my attention are the fields full of people.

One field is full of tents and bedrolls, with people milling about, many huddling together, while the sounds of crying just carry to my ears. Refugees. Over their sounds are the piercing wails and hoarse groans of the injured and dying. The smell is horrific. Death and taint, disease and the tang of hopelessness. Two fields dedicated to the wounded, people nearly stacked on one another, though to my trained eyes I can see someone has tried to organise them into neat rows so the few healers can move around.

By few healers I mean three people flitting from prone form to prone form. No proper bedding has been put down, but I can make out straw which is good for soaking up body fluids. The 'healers' seem to have a little area to themselves between the two fields, I guess by the ragged tent-like cloth setup.

I warred with myself. I had meant to leave my horse and cart within the low chantry boundary wall – where people nearly always mill around meaning thieves are less likely to help themselves to my accouterments, not that I have much worth stealing – retreat to the tavern for a hot meal and to inquire about the local's status.

Clearly though I can see that Lothering is nearly as last stand status. Between the number of wounded - soldiers I can see from the amount of ruined armour piling up, refugees, and the small contingent of armed men practising in the chantry courtyard. A few Templars are heading the team, but the rest have mismatched armour and are clumsy with their weapons.

I sigh in defeat as my eyes land once again on the fields of wounded. The soldiers – the conscious ones obviously – will have the best information, I tell myself in consolation. I steer Rowan towards the chantry and as I expected one of the Templars broke off from the training group to confront me.

He is not quite six foot, sea blue eyes, blonde hair curling under his ears. His expression is weary and suspicious. "You should turn back, traveller, have you not heard the Darkspawn are coming?"

I cast a wry smile his way. "Haird nait ta knao." I reply liltingly. "Aim a Heialer." I state easily. My lilting foreign accent always seems to add credence to my claims even as people begin to mistrust me more, and with my small stature and 'cute' freckles Templars mistake me for a harmless hedge-healer than an actual mage.

Relief and wonder floods his face. "We are in sore need of healers." He jerks a thumb over his shoulder as if I had somehow managed to miss the devastation. He leans to his side to eye up my cart. "Those your tools? I hope you have plenty of potions too, ma'am."

I smile down at him. "Ai will naid halp moavin' tham aind ai wais hoapin' ta leaive ma hoarse aind cart heire?"

With a faintly starry eyed expression he leads Rowan around in half circle which brings my cart near to the chantry doors, a young man helps me unbuckle Rowan and then takes her away to the stables. My Templar returns with a friend, a mousy haired brown eyed woman with a Warhammer strapped to her back (I may have grinned like a hero worshipping maniac), and they proceed to easily lift and carry my two chests. I can _just_ manage one on my own, but not easily.

We are greeted at the edge of the fields by an old iron-haired farmer's wife with a hacking cough and rough voice. She is delighted to have a healer. An Experienced healer, and immediately sets to with giving me the logistics of the arrangement they have going; worst off to the back, infectious towards the west. They know the signs of taint and to immediately put those people down and remove them as quickly as possible.

My chests are out down in the Healer area and my escorts leave with a smile. I sigh in relief. The old woman eyes me knowingly. "A mage healer, eh?" she laughs, or she tries around a cough. "I'll take you to least bad off, clear some space, eh?"

With my second wry smile of the day I indicate for her to lead the way after grabbing a couple of mid strength potions from my larger chest.

I heal dozens for nothing that day; most refuse to leave, believing they can drive the approaching darkspawn back, or hope to buy some time for the women and children still stranded in the village.

By mid-afternoon I had moved into the infectious diseases area; during my long life I have developed an immunity to most diseases purely by catching and surviving said diseases, so I stride in with little thought of myself. Most of these people are soldiers who had been living in close quarters with each other, spreading the diseases quickly amongst themselves, or who had not treated their wounds correctly and have developed some nasty infections.

By the time dusk falls around me I am incredibly dirty; blood and pus and sick coating the front of my healer jerkin and smudged across my face in various places. I am also bone tired from the outpouring of magic I had used, and quite famished I realise belatedly. Back at the Healer tents I find that dinner has already been made.

A beautiful red-head hands me a clay plate of steaming vegetables and chicken with a bright yet sympathetic smile. "The Chantry has a little private space for washing, I think you need it, no?" Her accent is faint but unmistakably Orlesian.

The others laugh – the old farm wife and two middle-aged men – while I roll my eyes but agree gratefully. I stink now, and it will only get worse the longer I leave the wash. Not to mention the increased risk of giving everyone more sickness on top of what they already have. Cleanliness is very important to Healers.

The three 'healers' leave then, their bellies full and far more tired than I, so it is just the red-head humming a tune and I still finishing off my good meal. Cured meats and dried foods are not very appetising, and these vegetables are some of the best I have had for a while.

"I had a dream." My companion states out of nowhere. I look over out of surprise to find her staring intently into the fire. "Darkness is crawling across the land like a horrible endless fog, people and their homes were swallowed whole…"

I shiver at the imagery her words conjure. No doubt the darkness is the Darkspawn.

"But then the darkness halted, prowling and burning like an angry cat, and silver griffons stood proud against it, people huddled behind them." She pauses for breath. I smile despite myself. "It was the wardens, the griffons are such a distinct part of the warden history, and I had a choice. I stood with one foot in the darkness, and one in the holy light of the griffons."

She is quiet for long enough that I decide she has no more to add so I speak. "A very interesting dream." I state. "Almost prophetic." I muse. There is no seer blood amongst the Orlesian's as far as I know.

She shifts uncomfortably, her gaze turning down to her feet, and I guess she has one more thing to add that she is uncomfortable about. "I heard a voice. Deep and male. He told me to watch for the little Healer. Esme." I flinch a little in shock. Her gaze turns to me and there is a defiant steel in those blue depths. "It was the Maker. He told me to find you so I could help."

I believed her, simply because I had not used my name in Lothering.


	10. Chapter 10: To Ostegar

**A/N. Here it is, the last chapter I have ready to go. I swear I will see you all again sometime to complete the story, but for now...**

 **I'd like to thank you all for reading, and also a big thanks to those who have reviewed too :)**

 **I will leave you with a fic recommendation; Last Supper by Isabeau of Greenlea. Its a tearjerker just to warn you guys ;P.**

* * *

10.

The next morning, four days since the failed Battle of Ostegar, I rise fresh from my pelts in the middle of the Healing tents. Twice during the night I woke to someone puking their guts up – one literally, who I just put out of his misery, the second poor sod was just in so much pain I had to use a sleep spell on him.

After some dry tack and biscuits and a pot of herbal tea for breakfast I made my rounds of the fields. With my magic working its way through their systems many of the patients are doing better, but most still need time, time which I do not think they have.

At noon dead bodies will be burnt on a pyre, most from here, but a few people have died in the refugee camp, and some of the old and frail have died from stress. Looking over to the chantry I see that two carts are being readied, a crowd of people are waiting anxiously around them; more people are finally leaving. I plan to leave Lothering too, but not away from the Wilds, Leliana's strange dream yesterday has focused me into making a last effort to track a Warden down.

As if summoned the red-head appears before me, along with the three other healers, to help in the fields.

"You are leaving to find them soon, no?" She asks as we wait for our turns to grab a health potion or poultice pack.

"Lunch time." I answer her quietly. "I will work here for a couple of hours before stopping to wash myself off, and then I will slip off with my horse." I sigh. "Speed is of the essence, but I am honestly not hopeful of my chances of finding anyone alive."

Leliana tsk's. "Have faith, Master Healer, I would not have had my dream if none lived." She brightly replies.

I shrug but manage a small smile for the optimistic young woman. I cannot help the pessimistic thought that it will not be Alistair and Duncan I find, because Fate is cruel. I should not be selfish though; I shall be happy to see any Warden.

By lunchtime I have yet more body fluids soaking into my tunic, making my stench so bad even I cannot ignore it, and I am sadly far too used to the smells. Leliana cannot stand to be within five feet of me so she escorts me off for a bath with a colluding wink.

After finally scrubbing the last of the stains from my jerkin and tipping the water from the 'bath' off in a corner I retrace my steps through the stone-hewn chantry. Inside is cosy with its dark stained oak pews, smooth grey flagstones on the floor, and lit by many a candle. There are a handful of bookcases packed tightly with books or vellum scrolls much to my surprise; I perhaps wrongfully picture that much literature to be in the bigger richer city chantries. The half dozen sisters are milling around either chatting between themselves or offering what little comfort they can to a few locals praying. One Templar is inside ostensibly to guard the 'Mother' but he seems to be as chatty as the sisters.

I gladly take a breath of fresh air – the incense they use is nice, but far too heavy in the enclosed space – and turn to find Leliana waiting with Rowan already saddled and packed up with my bedrolls and a pack of food and skins of water.

"Be careful, Esme." She gravely whispers once I am settled in my makeshift cloth saddle.

"You should pack Leliana, and if I am not back within a week you should think about leaving." I tell her quietly. Few people are out here now – the cart long gone – but I do not wish for someone to overhear and entice a true panic.

She shakes her head but her face is pale with fear. "Hurry." She bids one last time. I nod sharply and gee Rowan into a trot. I need to leave the village fast before people wonder where I am going.

Just to the south and west of the refugee field the sandy coloured bricks of the Tevinter built highway gleams in the midday sun. I angle Rowan directly to the stones keeping an eye on the milling civilians.

Luckily no one gives me any notice as Rowans hooves clop loudly on the stones and the highway is free for several furlongs. It is not until the landscape rises up on either side of me that I become uneasy.

There is a length of craggy land that separates the Kokari Wilds from the south east region of Ferelden, starting just to the west of Lothering and reaching nearly all the way to the city of Gwaren on the coast. Naturally at the moment it is a godsend; the Darkspawn have not decided to navigate the crags and so are kept in the Wilds, but it will unfortunately funnel the creatures west towards Lothering and probably further to Redcliffe.

The closer I get to the Wilds the narrower the highway gets and after an hour of trotting I spot a group of shining armour ahead. A wide cart with two oxen side by side could just about squeeze through now, and I realise that this is a lovely choke point for any resistance, and now the shining armour makes sense; Lothering's Templars seem to be setting up a barricade or three.

To my relief the Templar that had met and helped me yesterday is amongst the group thus with much persuasion he let me through. Not without considerable trepidation and argument I admit, but us Healers are looked upon with such awe we tend to get away with venturing to places most are not allowed. Or so it seems anyway.

From here the highway becomes very broken since it is not well tended, but enough remains to light a winding path down through the crags and into the Wilds bog-land. It is not an easy transition; trees and lush grass have tried to encroach down the hard crags and into the flooded earth but they come in strange clumps, and at the bottom on the flat land seem to mostly be strangled by native rushes.

What unnerves me the most aside from lack of cover is the lack of wildlife. Birds are abundant true, the predator birds preferring the high crags with the smaller birds nesting in the sparse trees or water birds in the brushes, but no land animals like deer or rabbit. Nor are there fish; the water is not deep enough yet to accommodate them. It all makes for little noise which to me, who has literally spent all my life wandering, is absolutely nerve wracking, mind shatteringly weird.

I press on nonetheless.

~#~#~#

Night-time is incredibly stressful now. No longer can I get any restful sleep. Where before I would wake every four hours, unless on a specific healer duty, yet sleep deeply, I now wake every four hours from a restless doze. The reason is that the runic ward schemes I use for detection of and protection from enemies do not anchor in the watery bog-land. I am left with flimsy or fluctuating (or both) wards unable to protect or detect anything bigger than a rat three feet away.

Not restful at all.

Nor is the constant chattering. It seems that the Darkspawn can sense the magic charging my ward schemes, and then once they are close enough, no doubt the fresh meat of a female – although not prolific by anyone's standards (we think due to our immortality the gods took much of our fertility as payment).

Of course it is only a theory that Darkspawn take the young females to mate with, because, in all the centuries of Warden Chronicles none have seen a female Darkspawn. I suppose that for all we know they are spat out fully formed from pools of taint, but then why do they take female's of a child-bearing age?

Thinking of these horror story histories is not helping. My mood or my sleep. I fear to look in the bog water for my reflection must be ghastly by now – I can almost feel the dark circles under my eyes.

#~#~#~#

A week from Lothering the circling scavenger-like Darkspawn finally deem me weak enough to 'ambush'.

It was not the most intelligent one ever; true it would have fooled any city-slicker or a sheltered maiden, but I am pretty sure I look like neither of those. Surely my pelts, worn clothes, sun-kissed skin, worn cart and predator-like alertness are a testament to that. Then again these are the generally mindless Darkspawn I am talking about.

As it was I spotted their shifting shapes amongst the trees and little brush cover, smelt their rotting flesh well before I saw them, and eventually saw the gleam of sunlight off their rusty weapons and armour.

I drop from Rowan instantly, unwilling to put my horse in any further danger, and hastily mock up a protective rune array around her; it won't keep out a really determined foe, but it should give me a few precious seconds to turn on them.

Sure enough, when my feet squelch on a particularly boggy part of the 'road' the group of dark creatures strike; there are eight in all, only one being a tall Hurlock, better armoured than normal – their leader. All of them have the same glazed dead eyes and rictus blood-thirsty grin.

The bog seems to do little to slow them down; their footing is strangely sure, almost like mountain goats, as they bound from the trees and brush with horrible eagerness. I feel fear creep chillingly up my spine.

As a Healer I usually use my magic on people, and rarely, animals, to their benefit (having taken Oaths to do no harm) but I am not restricted to not using offensive magic, I can use it very well in fact, but I do prefer to use my bladed staff and only use my offensive magic in overwhelming odds. Such as now.

Waiting for the group to close in on me to a point that any but a Warden would flinch at I unleash the tide of magic I had been storing since I had entered the Wilds.

In a wide circle around us the water sizzles hotly, bubbling as if boiling, as forks of lilac-white lightning arch up from the ground into the stormy sky above. The less watery bits of grass and rushes quickly burn; smoking and black under the onslaught.

The first charge of lightening is silent, but then sound seems to catch up with movement and the waters sizzling is drowned out by a crackling sound just below ear-ringing level.

All eight of the Darkspawn are caught in the vicious circle of lightning. Conjuring is my weakest point, but if something is already there, like the storm that was already brewing even if there is no thunder or lightening just yet, then it is some of my strongest magic next to healing.

They shriek and snarl, scream inhumanly, and writhe, contorting strangely in their agony. Within second their rotting flesh begins to smoke a little, and across their faces I can see it begin to blacken. Their smell becomes even worse, indescribable.

I stand serenely in the middle of this chaos. Rowan is pawing at the ground nervously a little-ways off. My left hand is upraised, helping me focus my magic into continuously fueling the lighting, while my right has already whipped my staff from my back. It is very unlikely the group will survive; I am not so powerful, but I have a huge mana pool, so I do not doubt I will kill them before my mana runs out, but better safe than sorry.

Finally, their death is on them. Their shriek ups to a whole new level, hoarse almost, and then just as suddenly cuts out, all of them dropping inelegantly to the bog, as if they were puppets whose strings had been cut.

My lightening fizzles out just in time for me to hear a human sounding shout. My ears ring in the dead silence that follows.

Around the clump of trees twenty foot in front of me a most bizarre foursome charges into sight. Three humans and a large well-muscled dog I recognise as the prized Ferelden Mabari.

"Oh."

The word pours from both me and one of the two males. It is more a sound of surprise and acknowledgement than anything. The expression of awe and mistrust on the middle mans – possible the leaders – stubbly face makes me smirk though.

He is of medium human height yet stockily built, making him seem shorter. He has an open-faced helmet which allows me to see that is eyes are grey and his hair is close to chestnut brown. Chainmail and Longsword comprise his arms. The Mabari, big for even its kind, presses into his left thigh. She is a lovely tan colour with blue kaddis markings.

To his left is a tall man with a closed-faced helmet in splintmail with a sword hilt poking over his left shoulder. A shield is strapped to his right arm. To the right of the leader is a tall slender woman. Dark bitter-chocolate hair compliments her pale complexion and hawk-like golden eyes. Her clothes are dotted with raven feathers. She reeks of entropy and animals.

"A Gypsy, here?" She comments slyly.

I snarl silently back. "A daughter of Flemeth, let off her leash?"

Her magic flares around us for a second in anger and frustration and embarrassment – I hit a mark. The leader laughs sourly. The tall armour clad man however lets out a bright too familiar laugh.

* * *

 **P.S I'm so sorry for the cliff hanger! I might see if I can get one more chapter out, no promises tho!**


End file.
